


The Strange Case of Professor Chaos and Mr. Stotch

by Athena0236, orphan_account, PBJellie (orphan_account)



Category: South Park
Genre: If You've Got Triggers they're Probably Here, Multi, Rated E for a reason, pretty much everyone really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athena0236/pseuds/Athena0236, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: When Butters created Professor Chaos as a child he never thought his evil persona would follow him into adulthood.





	1. Butters

**Author's Note:**

> YAY COLLABORATION FIC WITH A ROTATING POV
> 
> I (PBJellie) will be writing Butters  
> Athena2693 will be writing Professor Chaos

"It's not like you ever caused Mr. Mackey any trouble. You were a good student. Except that time you set the gym on fire. Don't mention that in the interview. And you're a good teacher, they're lucky to have you. Get it together." Butters stood outside the counselor's office, straightening his blue and white checkered bow tie.

 

The hallway was the same it had been when he was a child. The same blue lockers that had never quiet locked lined the same dull green walls. He knew that the office would be the same as it had been when he was a child too. He had the occasional parent teacher conference with Mackey's assistance, usually for Colonel with his family.

 

But he wasn't going to think about such terrible events as he waited for his shot. He was the only one currently on staff being considered for the position. His Dad assured him that he'd be a great successor, even if nepotism wasn't politically correct.

 

“Uh, Mr. Stotch?” Mr. Mackey's head popped through the door. He was the first interviewee. He knew the docket. Next was a junior high science teacher from North Park, then a former vice principal from Middle Park. It made him nervous, but how good could they be if they were a former vice principal? If you couldn't handle being the vice how could you handle having the whole job?

 

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he had forgotten to answer Mackey's question. “Yes, coming right in, you bet.” Butters gave an easy smile. He was a good teacher. No, he was a great teacher. No one else could handle the students like he could. In fact, he was the only teacher in the whole school that could sit with Colonel for more than an hour.

 

“Nice to see you Mr. Stotch. We've just got to get through some cursory questions, mmkay?” Butters fought the urge to respond with a casual m'kay. Smoothing his brown tweed pants as he sat, he nodded.

 

“Alrighty then, would you like to talk about your goals for a few minutes? What you hope to achieve as the new principal of South Park Elementary?” Butters froze, staring at the gray hair dotting Mr. Mackey's head. “Whenever you're ready, m'kay?”

 

“Aw gee, I'd like to make the school a better place for the students, staff, and administrators.” He had gone over this four times this week with his father, but he was drawing a blank. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants.

 

“But how, Butters?” Mr. Mackey was frowning.

 

“It's Mr. Stotch, if you would.” He swallowed, trying to erase his jitters. “I think that a clear and concise plan of action would benefit us all.”

 

“But what is your plan Butt-, Mr. Stotch?” Mackey dropped his pen.

 

“I thought this was just a starting interview.” His mouth felt dry. Mom had told him to drink more water, but he never listened. Maybe he wasn't a good listener, he thought. Maybe he wouldn't be a good principle and he wasn't even a good teacher.

 

“So you don't have a plan. That's m'kay. We'll just skip to the next question.” Mackey hummed, his eyes skimming down a piece of paper. The clock ticked as they sat silently.

 

“Just got to have confidence,” Butter's mumbled to himself, hoping that the interviewer wouldn't hear.

 

“What was that?” Mackey peered up, his glasses slipping down his nose. Why did Mackey even have a picture of himself on the wall? Did he not have anyone who he cared about?

 

“No-nothing, sir.” Butters cursed his stutter.

 

“Do you think you'd be able to come up with a smooth transition plan with the interim principal?” Butters nodded fervently.

 

“I sure could, even if Mr. Adler hates me.” Dad had specifically told him not to say that. That was on the no list on the whiteboard in the family living room. “Oh, hamburgers.”

 

“Look, Butters, I mean Mr. Stotch, you're just not a good fit. You're not a natural leader, m'kay? The interview was a favor since you were the only staff member interested. You're an important member of the staff, but I don't think you're made of the stuff we need of to lead our school in these troubling times.”  

  
These times were no more troubling than when he was a child. So there had been fifteen headless frogs in the gymnasium last month, everyone on staff had known it was Colonel. It’s not like all the adults had left the town and the kids were killing each other. Times had been worse before, he was certain.  
  
“Thank you for your time.” Butters choked out. Mr Mackey, smiled waving him out of the office. He could swear he heard something about those damn kids as he shut the door.  
  
He hoped his father wouldn’t be sour at him when they met next week. He sunk into the worn leather seat of his 2003 Pontiac Aztek. The car was mostly orange, except for the passenger door which was forest green. Ken had gotten him a good deal on the piece of junk when he left for college.  
  
Maybe it was pathetic that at age twenty-nine Butters still drove the same car as when he fled the state to go to the University of Arizona. Some people don’t even have cars, so you should be proud of what you’ve got, was Butters’ rational. The radio sprung to life after he finally got the car to turn.  
  
_“Bless my soul, Herc was on a roll. Person of the week in every Greek opinion poll.”_  
  
He had specifically picked this song for after he aced his interview. His mom had told him the importance of visualizing and having a plan for when things go well. She said it’d help him. The song only made him feel sad and a little bit stupid.  
  
He didn’t even sing along as he drove home. He stopped at the stop sign by his family home, contemplating pulling over to get a fresh plate of his Mom’s cookies. Not that she was bound to make cookies, she just did it out of love.      
  
_“Say amen, there he goes again. Sweet and undefeated and an awesome ten for ten.”_ __  
__  
Butters pressed the arrow to skip to the next track. He had felt so happy when he burnt this CD on his Acer laptop. He even used a Sharpie to make little designs on the top, like a rocket ship and a #1 Teacher trophy. He had never gotten a #1 Teacher award, but he figured it was only a matter of time.  
  
_“Can I ignore that sound of distant drumming? For a handsome sturdy husband who builds handsome sturdy walls and never dreams that something might be coming, just around the river bend.”_ __  
__  
Butters skipped the song, frowning. It’s not like he had a husband, or wife for that matter. He dated Annie Knits in high school but she was not impressed. They made love, well tried to. He had orgasmed as she rolled the condom on to his penis. Shortly after, she stormed out of the hotel room he had reserved, slamming the door as she screamed that it was over. Butters had even bought two dozen roses so she had a trail of flower petals leading to the bed. He wanted to give her an ultimate romantic moment and he blew it.  
  
_“This old town can slow you down, people taking the easy way.”_  
  
He blindly searched for the seek button. “You always blow it. She was even better than you as a frog!” He sniffled to himself. “You’re just not good at anything, are ya lil buddy?” His hand reached behind him to pat his back. Dad always did that for him when he was upset.  
  
_“And basically just wonder when will my life begin?”_  
  
Butters hummed along, wiping a tear from his face. This was his favorite song. He thought Mandy Moore did a really great job, and he really liked Rapunzel and he thought that Flynn was kind of cute. Not that he’d ever admit that he thought a Disney Prince was cute.  
  
_“And then I’ll brush and brush my hair, stuck in the same place I’ve always been.”_ Butters pounded on the steering wheel in sync with the tempo as he parked his car outside of City Wok. “And I’ll keep wonderin’, and wonderin’, and wonderin’, and wonderin’, when will my life begin?”

 

He sang as loud as he could, unsuccessfully fighting back tears.


	2. Professor Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes and (mostly) dudettes. Here's Athena with Professor Chaos' chapter. Hope you guys didn't already all die from the Butters' sugar overload.

The building smells of stale smoke, melted snow, and wet dog. None of this is surprising. Professor Chaos can hear the screams of excitement the moment he walks through the heavy metal door. The snarls of the dogs. The whimpering pain of the losers. The angry yells from men, old and young, hollering to “Go for the kill!”

    He pays these voices no heed. He isn't here for the game. He would never lower himself to the level of these worthless rednecks. Loosening the black silk scarf around his neck, he scans the haze of smoke in the front room for the person he has come to see. Repugnant. Chaos wouldn't say he doesn't appreciate the occasional expensive cigar but the trash in this town can't even bother to buy real cigarettes, subsisting off those cheap self-rolled varieties without a filter. Putting themselves in an early grave, doubtless. Good for them.

    Finally, he spots the rotund brunette figure seated at the end of the bar. He's perched there like a squat toad living in its own feces-saturated water.

    “Why do you always drag me to shit holes like this?” Chaos asks, sitting next to the figure, the man's ample bottom overflowing on his stool. “I feel like my IQ level drops twenty points just walking in here.”

    “You know I have custody of Colonel on Thursday nights,” Eric Cartman sneers at his boss. “Even if the sleeping pills kept him down until I got back from Denver I don't want to be out there at two in the morning when I have to drop the kid off for school at the crack of dawn.”

    “Well you should've thought of that before poking holes in the condom, shouldn't you?” Chaos smirks. “Barkeep! God damn it, what's taking him so long.” Chaos watched the skinny old nearly-bald man pouring beers for a couple of skinheads. “It's beer, not fucking nitroglycerin. It won't explode if he pours it a little quicker.”

    “I'm sorry sir,” the old man apologizes, rushing over to them as soon as the beers were handed off. “I didn't mean to keep you waiting. What can I get you tonight?”

    “Just a gin and tonic,” Chaos says. “The smell of this place is making me sick. I need something fresh to get this taste out of my mouth.”

    The bartender gets on the drink, pulling out the expensive gin he keeps under the counter for only a few select guess. Chaos being one of them.

    “It's the snow,” Cartman tells him, chugging back the rest of his own cheap beer. Some mass produced lager that tasted like it was pissed out by a horse, drank by a skunk, then pissed out again. “It makes it smell like wet dog in here. But what do you expect from a dog fighting ring?”

    “I don't care what it is. Why can't we meet somewhere less white trash?” Chaos glances at the array of men around them, too many wearing Carhatts and matching steel-toed boots. Redneck chic.

    “Because, _Professor Chaos_ ,” Cartman stresses his name suggestively, “All of South Park knows you by sight and we can't have people speaking about you, can we? Word might come around.”

    “I'm not him,” Chaos grits out between his teeth. “I'm not that pathetic loser.”

    His gin and tonic, sparkling in an immaculate glass, is set in front of him. Chaos wouldn't be surprised if this glass was brand new, never used, just waiting to be used once by him before being put into regular rotation with the riff raff.

    “Then you must have a twin brother,” the fatter man comments, ignoring Chaos' annoyance. “because you're the spitting image of him.”

    “If you ever compare me to that scurrying little cockroach again I'll have you shot and fed to your own dogs,” Chaos mutters lowly. He takes a drink from the cocktail. There's not even a lemon wedge accompanying it. “Let's just get this over with so I can get out of here and find a place that serves real cocktails.”

    “Fine with me,” Cartman says. His glass is empty. The barkeep immediately takes it from him, pours him another glass of the yellow poison. “Crocker has a fight at eleven fifteen so I'd like to wrap up before then.”

    “How'd the drop off go?” Chaos asks, getting straight to the point now. There's a particularly vicious sounding ripping noise coming from behind the dog-fighting door. “Was all the cargo there?”

    “It went good,” Cartman confirms, glancing at the door as well. “None missing. No cops, no hostility. A nice smooth hand off, for once.'

    “Good. There's been too many incidents lately.”

    “We have another shipment coming through on Saturday,” the fatter man reminds him. “From China. There's word that the feds might have picked up on our usual location. We may need to switch ports.”

    “How reliable is the word?”

    “Nothing to sneeze at,” Cartman shrugs. He picks up his newly filled mug and takes a long drink from it. Burps loudly. Obscene. “I mean, I wouldn't trust the guy to babysit my kid but he's never given us a reason to betray him.”

    “Alright,” Chaos agrees, his voice clipped. “I'll give Jorge a call about it tomorrow.”

    This wasn't a job for Cartman. Only Chaos was allowed to change shipment plans. All his men were under strict orders to obey no orders in this regard unless they came from Chaos directly. Cartman had been loyal to him for years but Chaos wasn't an idiot. He knew that Cartman would turn on him in a heartbeat if he had any chance of taking his place.

    Chaos lifts his drink to his lips and drinks from it, his eyes lifting upwards automatically. His gaze turns to the chalkboard over the old man's head. It lists the fights for the night as well as their times. The old schedule had been hastily erased, a powdery white background to tonight's agenda. He recognizes two of Cartman's dogs on the roster.

    “Where's McDonald? I thought he was your big ticket?” Cartman's been bragging about that ugly ass dog for over a year now. Great genes, from a winner in Detroit. As big as a horse, I swear.

    Cartman rolls his eyes and waves near the back of the room. Towards the door that leads to the kitchens. That's where the ice is made for the drinks and snacks prepared for the spectators.

    “In the freezer,” he says, “He lost again on Monday so I had Wong's men pick him up. Just got him back today. I saved you some of the ground.”

    “Great,” Chaos drawls. Cartman is such a fucking retard. Yes, Chaos is a fan of dog meat, but the good kind you can get at one of his restaurants in Denver. The kind prepared by the authentic Chinese cooks who were actually trained how to butcher and cook dog in their home country. Ground dog? Who knows what they put in there. Probably ear-flaps and toenails. Fighting dog is shit anyway. All lean muscle, not enough fat.

    “Did you want to stay for the fight?” Cartman asks. “It might be the last chance you get to see Crocker if he doesn't win this one.”

    “I'm not much of a dog person,” Chaos says. He drains the rest of his glass and sets it on the bar. “Pay my tab.”

    “Oh yes sir massa bossman, whatever you say massa bossman,” Cartman gushes sarcastically. Then he turns to the old man trying to keep up with the thirsty crowd now pouring out of the room. The fight is over. “Jerry, go get that package of meat for Chaos.”

    “Yes sir,” Jerry gushes not sarcastically. He rushes away from the crowd of complaining men to retrieve the package for them. He returns with a Ziplock bag packed with dry ice. The meat itself is hidden, wrapped in white butcher paper. Thank God for small miracles. Last time Cartman had handed him the meat in just butcher paper and it had bled all over the Sting Ray's interior. It had cost him a pretty penny to get the blood washed out.

    He exits out the same door he came in. The business hires no valets, who valets for a dog fight? But one of the men who washes dishes in the back rushes to retrieve his car from wherever he had parked it when he first arrived. Cartman knows Chaos does not walk through dirty snow.

    Chaos wrinkles his nose as he slides in between the seat and steering wheel. Not only does the place reek of smoke, they've pushed his seat back. He is not a tall man. He can't even reach the pedals now. He hates when people adjust his seat. He ignores the man waiting patiently at his side, doubtless expecting a tip, and makes a show of adjusting his seat for a good five minutes. Then he shoots the man a displeased look, shifts into first, and slams on the gas. The tires squeal.

    He loves his Sting Ray. It's a classic 1963 model, completely restored, painted silver and cyan. Driving it is one of his deepest pleasures. And the local authorities know who owns this car, know not to bother him if he's going ninety on a dirty road at two in the morning. Not that they've ever met Professor Chaos directly, but his reputation proceeds him.

    He makes it to Denver in forty minutes, despite his phone telling him it would take seventy, and heads to his office. He has a small get together to attend at midnight at a local club but he needs to pick up a gift for the host and change into some better shoes. He's still wearing _his_ boots. First thing he does is check his hair, adding a little more gel to it, slicking it back, and then spray on some cologne. He knows it's pointless at this point, he has to still smell like redneck and desperation. He packs the baggies of cocaine inside the inner pockets of his long woolen jacket, taking a moment to sample a bit from each baggie. For quality control purposes, of course.

    He's still sniffling as he passes by the bouncer at the club. The tattooed behemoth towers over Chaos, but most people do. Chaos walks straight, head high, exuding confidence. If you walk like you're seven feet tall people will treat you like you're seven feet tall.

    This is a business meeting but no business is discussed. Not tonight. They have discussed business before and they will discuss it later but tonight is all about hospitality. Chaos presents his gifts to the club's owner under flashing neon lights. The owner, in turn, gives Chaos pick over any of the girls dancing tonight. He picks a blond girl-next-door type dressed in a Catholic school girl uniform, pink ribbons in her hair. He doesn't take her into the back room immediately though. He has her sit with them, perched on one of his knees, and buys her drinks but gives her no choice over which ones are ordered. Chaos and the owner both laugh as she curls her nose in disgust and tries to swallow the hard liquor down. Today's teens can't even handle a Manhattan.

    “I heard you own an apartment in New York,” Chaos brings up casually. He's rubbing the girl's upper thigh. Her dress is short, nearly up to her crotch. Easy access. “Why stay in Denver if you can afford New York?”

    “If I was in New York I couldn't afford to own an apartment in New York,” the owner laughs, trying to catch Chaos' eyes. He's watching him petting his girl. She's taller than Chaos, maybe heavier, with the tits. He's a small guy and barely visible behind her large head of hair. “Too much competition. No, Denver is where it's at for the up and comers like me and you.”

    “I think we'll do great together,” Chaos agrees, his voice hoarse from yelling. But he knows how this works. He doesn't want to stay on the topic of work right now, it's not proper. “I was thinking of taking a trip to New York soon. I've never been, if you can believe it.”

    “Don't bother,” the other man tells him. He watches Chaos rubbing the front of the girl's panties. His wrist has pushed her skirt up just enough to expose the little kitten face on the front. “Go to LA. It's like New York except the weather is nicer and you can go to the beach.”

    “Shitty pizza though,” Chaos says back.

    The girl is starting to get drunk. Chaos doesn't like fucking them when they start falling asleep. Or when they start vomiting. He doesn't mind tasting the vomit on their mouth but he hates it when they get it on his clothes.

    “I think it's time to put this little girl to bed,” he tells the owner. He pushes the girl, not hard but not gentle either. She slides out of his lap. With the heels she has a good four inches on him. Good height to bury your face into their tits when you fuck em. If you're going with face to face, anyway.

    Chaos doesn't. The backroom is too disgusting to touch with his knees or elbows, even if he was just to push his pants down enough to get his cock out. He directs the girl to hold onto a pillar in the middle of the room instead and takes her from behind. She presses her cheek against the structure, her arms wrapped around the cold marble. She makes a surprised gasp as he pushes in.

    They always do.

    “Fuck, you're big,” she whispers.

    “For a short guy?” he asks, his lips against her ear. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Why waste the energy growing tall when you can just concentrate it all into having a big cock?”

    He doesn't bother to help her along, girls have hands too they can do that themselves, but he knows all the ways to make them moan and scream beneath him. Boys too. It's not about just having a large cock (eight and three quarter inches thank you very much) but knowing how to use it. He feels the tell-tale convulses around his length three times before he allows himself to come.

    He makes her remove the condom. Watches her tie it up with a disgusted look on her face and makes sure he sees her throw it in the trash full of needles and broken glass. He doesn't trust women to not try to get a kid out of him.

    It's nearly four by the time he leaves the club. He turns on the radio to keep himself awake. Same boring pop shit they're always playing. You'd think at four in the morning they could be playing classical or something. Wouldn't that be better for the early morning commuters? Not that morning talk radio host crap.

    He switches to the Bluetooth on his phone, opens Pandora. The first song that comes on is Nine Inch Nails. He sings along, the dirty, bitter lyrics lifting his mood, pumping energy down his face, through his arms, onto his hands where he beats his palms on the steering wheel to the beat.

    " _You let me violate you. You let me desecrate you. You let me penetrate you. You let me complicate you_."

    He parks the Sting Ray down the street in a parking garage when he pays by the month. It's a short walk to the apartment from there.

    The apartment is dark but when he turns on the light it feels like an elementary classroom threw up inside. All bright colors or pastels. There's a purple unicorn pillow pet on the couch.

    He goes to the picture hanging by the display case full of Hello Kitty memorabilia, removes it, and exposes the hidden safe behind it. He cracks the lock with a well trained twist of his wrist, opens it, and stuffs inside the things he'll need for tomorrow night. His car keys. His wallet. His phone.

    Last thing he does he take the still frosty bag of dog meat and put it in the fridge. He's heard that eating something dangerous will make you strong. Will a second rate fighting dog do the trick?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...is this something we should continue? Or do people only read creek now a days?


	3. Butters

The next day was brutal. Butters felt like he hadn't slept a wink. He chalked it up to tossing and turning in bed all night, subconsciously processing how to break the news to his folks. He mustn't have had any new ideas, because he still fretted over the logistics.

He settled for a cowardly text in the group chat.

_Come for dinner tonite?_

Mom and Dad had wished him a good morning, every morning. They were thoughtful. He thought he was lucky to have them, if they’d still have them after he shamed the family. The thought lodged itself into his head as he tried to go about his morning routine. He spilled coffee grounds all over the floor thinking about how he was going to be disowned.

He decided to just make a stop at Tweak Bros to get his morning coffee. He figured it'd be nice to treat himself to something special, soften the blow of his inevitable abandonment.

“Good morning, Tweek!” Butters’ smile pulled at his face. Dog nabbit, he was going to be happy. Today was going to be a good day. He was a good person who deserved to have a nice day. His folks loved him. He knew they did. They told him all the time.

“NRGH! Butters!? Jesus Christ!” Tweek screeched from behind the register, his hands flying to his hair. He ducked beneath the counter and mumbled a weak, “What do you wa-want?”

Everyone knew the Tweek boy was weird. Butters had known it since third grade. Butters cheerfully answered his question, regardless. Craig said that Tweek liked to be treated normally. He stuffed Jason into a locker to prove his point. “Just give me a fancy coffee, whichever kind you think is best.”

“Nrr, okay.” Tweek kept his back to Butters as he whirled around the machines. Butters fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet, surprised when Tweek shoved a cup of coffee into his hands, eyes frantically darting around the room. “No charge, just go. Jesus!”

He had ducked behind the counter, tufts of blonde barely peeking above the wooden slab.

“Well thanks, buddy. I owe ya one.” Butters smiled and waved as he left, even though Tweek wasn't looking. “He knew you needed a pick me up, what a nice guy.” Butters hummed to himself as he sipped on his drink.

It was too hot, burning the tip of his tongue. He climbed into his car, carefully balancing the drink as he fiddled with the key in the door. The remote had gone out not too long ago, but the key still worked, so it was no big loss. Not in Butters’ mind.

Kenny had offered to fix it, saying all he needed was a new battery in the key fob. Butters was tempted to take him up on it. Spending time at the dirty garage was a treat.

Being anywhere with Kenny was a treat.

Once the car finally started he sang along softly to “Ev'rybody Wants to Be A Cat” as he drove through the sleepy streets to his classroom. He needed to warm up his vocal chords for his lesson. He had planned a rap on mitochondria, just so his students would always remember the powerhouse of the cell.

 

…

 

The rap had not gone over well. Colonel had somehow managed to incite a race war over his apparent cultural appropriation.

The class had seemed bored until he had turned on the instrumental track. Butters had known that Eminem would get the kids excited, a few children raised their heads off of the desk when the piano started to play as he put the words on his projector.

It didn't matter what the slides read, because Butters had returned to muscle memory from drunken parties within one verse. He aggressively rapped into his metal water bottle, which the woman at the zoo said helped save sea turtles, until the last chorus of “Lose Yourself.”

Colonel had said that white supremacy was the new world order in that song, his father had told him. And within a few minutes a young Jewish boy was beating his head against the desk.

Butters was not looking forward to that parent-teacher conference. He prayed as he walked out of the building that Eric wouldn't bring the White girl to enrage Lexus. Not that sitting in a room with any of them was pleasant, regardless.

His parents had agreed to meet him for dinner, saying they'd be over at six thirty, and that they couldn't wait to see him. His mother had sent him three lolcats pictures relating to food throughout the day. She was always a proponent of good, clean humor.

Butters had to admit that he loved the pudgy gray cat that was asking for a cheeseburger. Burgers sounded good for dinner anyway.

He had almost forgotten that he was delivering bad news to his folks. He unwrapped a package of ground beef in white butcher paper from the freezer. He wasn't one to usually leave the meat wrapped, opting to switch to a Ziploc bag with a date of purchase written in black block letters.

It must have slipped his mind when he came home from that new butcher. Local grass fed beef that was farm raised and humanely slaughtered. Dad had shown it too him, boasting about how great the town was now.

Methodically he threw the meat in the microwave, setting it to defrost as he rummaged around for buns and chips. He formed six patties as he hummed to himself. It was going to be okay, he thought. They love you, even if you aren't principal material.

Pan frying burgers wasn't ideal, but his apartment didn't have a balcony. It was a good apartment, he reminded himself, even if they didn't allow cats. They had talked about it as a family when he moved in, both of his parents had agreed it was a big responsibility to have a pet and he should do more research.

He could always get a cat later.

There were three knocks on his door. “At least they can't ground me,” he muttered under his breath as he weaved through the apartment, fluffing the throw pillows on his couch quickly as he heard the burgers sizzle.

“Mom, Dad.” He flung open the door, immediately hugging his mother.

“I give affirmative consent for a hug, Butters.” His father smiled, looking over his sunglasses.

“I gave implied consent, PC. My arms were open.” His mother sighed, letting go of Butters.

“Implied consent is not as firm as plain verbal consent, Strong. Leopold is a growing young man who needs to be well versed in the proper way to ask and receive affection from any man, woman, child, or person who doesn't fit into society's restrictive gender norms.” His mother hummed an agreement. “Do you give consent to a hug?”

“Ye-yeah, of course I do. Gee, y'all can hug me whenever.” Butters cheeks were red.

“Is that burgers I smell? I bet you followed all cooking safety measures, used sustainably sourced meat, and fair trade produce.” Butters nodded. These things were important to his dad.

“Butters was such a cute little chef in high school. Do you remember when he'd come over late at night and help me sift through flour to make sugar cookies?” The sugar cookies had been his favorite part of being locked out of Linda and Stephen's house. He didn't get grounded in high school, he was just locked out. He never intentionally put the cheese in the veggie crisper.

Not that it mattered to Stephen.

“I do, Strong. Not that you were obligated to be in the kitchen, women should be wherever they feel most comfortable.” Strong rolled her eyes, mumbling something about consent as she gave PC a peck on the cheek.

“Oh, hamburgers, the burgers are burning!” Butters rushed off, banging his knee on the coffee table as he searched for a spatula. There were assurances that the food would be fine from his mother.

They ate quietly. Butters felt like the beef was off, too gamey, but maybe it was the new butcher. He made a mental note to go to the North Park meat market next time.

“So Leopold, what was the cause for this dinner?” PC wiped at his mouth as he squeezed his wife's hand.

“He doesn't have to have a reason to call us over to eat. He's just being a good son.” Butters’ stomach churned as he listened to her words.

“Uh, Mom, Dad?” He questioned, looking up from his half finished burger. “I had that interview.” He bumped his fists together as they looked on expectantly. His Dad even removed his sunglasses, letting them hang from his polo collar.

“Is this a celebratory dinner? It's customary for the PC frat to join in on the festivities when one of our own is in a position to help marginalized communities. I remember my first principal-hood, it was life changing.” He smiled, showing his top teeth. “It was the end of my journey into manhood. Not that manhood has anymore relevance than womanhood, or the struggles of non binary people.”

“The word you're looking for is adulthood.” Strong added.

“Not to belittle the struggles of minors.” Butters sighed as they continued to talk.

“I didn't get it. I'm not leadership material.” Butters was not going to cry in front of his parents. Not today.

“Oh, that’s okay Butters. We love you anyways.” His mother rose from her seat, wrapping him in a hug.

“Is it because you’re a marginalized individual? Maybe your bisexuality lost some things in translation, I’ll go and have a chat with them.”

“No, it’s okay, Dad,” he spoke, breaking away from his mother’s hug.

“PC, let him fight his own battles,” Strong chided.

“Right, would hate to further his traumatic relations with heterosexuals by pushing the situation.” Butters groaned, not wanting to hear this speech again. He loved them, but sometimes it just became a bit much.

“PC, sweetie, I think it’s best if we drop it. I’m sorry you didn’t get the job. There will be other jobs.” They spent the rest of the dinner nibbling at the burgers, before his parents saw themselves off.

He retired to his bedroom, dragging his feet as he dumped the dishes in the sink. He could do them later. The therapist he saw in college told him he should take time for self care, so he sunk into bed, opening his laptop to watch “How To Get Away With Murder.”

The show made him a little bit uncomfortable, but Kenny watched it. Kenny brought it up a lot in conversation. If it made Kenny happy, Butters figured it was worth a watch. He promised himself that if he was too uncomfortable by the end of the first season that he’d turn it off.

Surely season one would be enough to find common ground.

As he watched the third episode, he didn’t think he’d even have the stomach to touch a dead body. He’d just go to jail.

Not that Butters would ever kill anyone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PC PRINCIPAL AND STRONG WOMAN TAKING CARE OF BUTTERS SHOULD BE CANNON
> 
> like please


	4. Professor Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E is for EXPLICIT buddy friend guy
> 
> Athena doesn't want to be on the fic anymore, but she's still writing Chaos. 
> 
> So here, enjoy a Chaos chapter!

Professor Chaos arrives at the old lumber camp earlier than he had planned on, but he's happy to have awoke so early in the evening. It gives him time to relax after business is done. He hasn't had much time to just relax with a book lately. They say there is twenty-four hours in a day, but that's not true for Chaos.

The cargo should be in the warehouse, if everything went as planned. It's one of many warehouses they own around the city, unique only in its distance from people compared to the others. It's not in the city, not really, but on the outskirts, nestled among a wall of trees, the river to one side. It's an old lumber storage warehouse, back in the days when a river was needed to power the saws. It had been abandoned years ago with the increased use of electricity that streamlined the process, moving the labor from riverbanks to crowded city streets. When Chaos had purchased the mill years ago he had merely purchased the land itself, the old, abandoned buildings barely a consideration to the sellers. Admittedly, the land itself was a perk, since the dirt road he had driven the Sting Ray down was considered private property. They treated it like private property, fencing off the road to any hapless driverbys.

The processing building still smell of sawdust, after all these years. It's a nice enough smell. Especially compared to the warehouse. Chaos parks the Sting Ray directly in front of the mill when he arrived.

“You're early,” Cartman observes. He's sitting at the large wooden desk near the back, away from the door with the wind and the snow that blows in whenever anybody enters or leaves. “It's barely dark out.”

“Believe it or not, but I'm not actually a vampire,” Chaos smirks, “Despite what the rumors may be.”

Cartman has mayonnaise around his mouth. It's greasy and white, shining in the yellow lighting of the mill like semen around a streetwalker's maw. A half-finished burger sits in front of him, a brown bag nearly see-through with grease near his elbow. He's the only one of Chaos' men who doesn't stand to greet him.

“Professor Chaos!” a surprised voice calls. Chaos picks at his teeth with his tongue, tasting something absurdly sweet in his mouth, and waits for the owner of the voice to reach him. John Tuttle, a man only remarkable in how absolutely forgettable his appearance is, arrives with several men behind him. They're carrying guns.

“Good evening, Tuttle,” he oozes at his man. He's the leader of this group of men, but unimportant in the larger scheme of Chaos' operations. Easily replaced, if the need ever arose. “Is the shipment secure?”

“Yes, sir,” Tuttle nods, standing straight, at attention. He's holding his gun in his arms, it's aimed inadvertently at the door. “Ready for your inspection.”

“Good,” Chaos says. Then he speaks to Cartman. “Were there any complications?”

“We lost some of the merchandise,” he confesses, using a napkin to wipe the creamy mess of his face. The greasy sheen remains.

“That's to be expected,” Chaos shrugs. He removes his kid gloves meticulously, slowly inching one finger down at a time. They're expensive and he doesn't want to wrinkle them. “How about the cops? Did they show?”

“At the original port, yes,” Cartman says. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a handful of fries. Then he speaks with his mouth full, “But not at the new one. Drop off went fine.”

“Perfect,” Chaos purrs. “Give your man an extra two thousand for the tip. Now, let me see the merchandise.”

One of Tuttle's men come forth with Chaos' bag of equipment, handing him what he needs as Chaos takes his time changing. He removes his immaculate shoes, exchanging them for a pair of rain boots, and dawns a pair of fresh rubber gloves from a medical supply box. Lastly, he accepts the long stick they hand him. He tests it in front of himself, the sizzle of electricity in the air setting everybody around him on edge. Cartman finally stands to follow them, crumpling up the fast food bag into a makeshift softball and tossing it onto the desk. Probably the closest the tub-of-lard has gotten to throwing a ball in two decades.

The warehouse is suffocating. It always is. It's as humid as usual inside, sticky hot like a greenhouse, with the smell of feces and sweat. The murmur of dozens of voices greet him. Another man meets them at the door, talking in hushed voices with Tuttle, as Chaos raises his head to look over the shipment.

“How many did we lose?” He's trying to count the number of them but they're piled on top of each other like kittens in a garbage heap.

“Three,” Tuttle says, glancing down at the clipboard in his hand to double check. “Two children and an elderly woman.”

“How old were the children?” Not all children were useless.

“Young,” Cartman interjects. He always seems to keep track of the children who come and go from this room. “A baby and a toddler.”

“Alright,” Chaos says, feeling more relaxed now. He hates losing money. “That's not too bad of a loss. Let's see what else we have here.”

He fires up the cattle prod in his hand, pulling at the trigger a few times to shoot out sparks, warning these people of what will happen to them if they try to turn against him. They cower on their blankets along the walls, in the corners, anywhere that is not out in the open. The men surround Chaos, all a minimum one-foot taller than him, guns ready at command. Not that Chaos wants to shoot any of these people. Dead slaves are worthless.

“Who here speaks English?” he yells out in the middle of the room. His voice echoes against the stone and metal. None of them answer. He fires off another display of sparks. “I know China teaches English in their schools, so I will repeat again. Who here speaks English?”

Still no response. Chaos steps towards a nearby woman and jabs at her with the prod. Her scream reverberate through the air. Chaos swears that the Chinese women scream in higher pitch than the Russian ones.

“Stop!” a heavily accented voice begs, “I speak English! My son speaks English!”

Chaos turns to an old man dressed in filthy rags, maybe fifty, sixty. His son is probably about Chaos' own age. The son is wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Well it was probably white at some point. It's yellowed now, especially around the neck and underarms, and there appears to be vomit on the front.

“One of you come up here,” Chaos demands, pointing at the empty spot to his side. The son begins to move but the old man grabs him, pulls him back, and spits out something to him in a language Chaos doesn't care to understand. They always do this shit. 'Oh no father let me go!' 'No son, you're the hope of the family!' Melodramatic as shit. Do they think they live in some shitty TV drama?

The old man wins. The old men always win. Chinese are so obedient to their elders.

“Alright,” Chaos says, speaking loudly and clearly. He doesn't look at the old man at his side. “Tell your people that for now, they belong to me.”

The old man looks at him, as if waiting for more. Chaos turns his head and gives him a cold look. The man turns and speaks out loud, his voice sounds whiny.

“Tell them they will work. And if they work well, they will be free in ten years.”

The man repeats his words. Voices whisper along the edges of the walls.

“If they do not work well, if they disobey me, they will be dead in ten years.”

Again he repeats his words. This time there are gasps and cries. The voice of a child starts sobbing. It cuts off as suddenly as it started. Chaos takes the clipboard from Tuttle and checks the list of names at the top. Only two today. Less interest, but immediate payment. It's always a gamble.

“Tell Chen Yang and Hui Wu to please approach.”

He calls for the two chosen ones. The woman approaches immediately, she's older and walks with her head high and a sense of dignity in her steps, but the man, who is much younger, is pushed forward by a group of other men who yell harshly at him. They're both trembling by the time they reach him.

“Tell these two their families have already paid for their transportation, and they will escorted to them in the morning.”

The old man turns to speak to the two directly, his voice quieter, and the women begins to cry with relief. One of Tuttle's men grab her by the arm and the other grabs the man. They're led off. Chaos waits until they're out of the building so they cannot spread any rumors about what happens from here on out.

“Now the rest of you,” he calls, stopping to allow his voice to be repeated, “Men to my left, women to my right. Children are to stay with their mothers, unless their mothers are not present.”

They don't move, not immediately. Chaos raises the prod, just a few inches, and that's enough to get them moving. They divide against the walls like well trained sheep. Maybe Chaos should get some sheep dogs. More loyal than the men currently sounding him with guns. Probably better smelling too.

“Lastly, anybody who speaks English come to the front of their lines,” Chaos says. “Those who speak English will be given better paying jobs than those who do not. The quicker you pay off your debts to me, the quicker you will be free.”

This last command sends forth a wave of excited whispers. Indentured servitude is not the same as slavery. Chaos would not own a thriving transportation business through slavery alone.

He inspects the women first. The women are the most important merchandise he deals with, even more so than his drug or arms deals. The women are the gift that keep on giving. He stops to scrutinize each young woman individually, starting with the English speakers. The first one is very pretty and he's considering her a possible candidate but when he tells her to open up, prods at her mouth with a gloved finger, he sees nothing but brown rot. He asks her to speak and her English is decent. He tells Tuttle to put her in one of their call centers. Another one is not as pretty as the first but her teeth are good. “Put this one in the brothel on tenth,” he tells Tuttle. Tuttle asks for her name and Chaos hears him writing it down on the clipboard as he walks onto the next woman. She's given one of the silver bracelets used to mark the mediocre prostitutes.

He does not bother to check the teeth of the older women, the uglier women. He speaks to them, asks them if they can read and write, if they have any special skills. He assigns them positions, tells them to take their children with them. He doesn't ask the pretty ones, the young ones, if they can read and write. Literacy is not a factor. Neither is weight a factor. They can lose weight. One woman is beautiful but pudgy. He has the men strip her naked so he can inspect the body. They force her to turn around. She has no stretch marks. He tells Tuttle to give her a gold bracelet but to send her to work one of the farms for a couple months first. The exercise will melt the fat off her. She would've received a copper bracelet if she had had stretch marks.

He finds one perfect specimen. She says she's eighteen. Her teeth are white and straight. Her skin perfect.

“Have this one checked immediately,” he tells Tuttle. “If she passes I'll have her sent to Strawberry Swirls.”

Strawberry Swirls is the club that Chaos had visited just two nights ago, the one where he had fucked the blond in the backroom against the pillar. He still needs to close the deal with the owner there and only wants to present the best merchandise for now. This girl is prime material, cream of the crop. And Chinese escorts are so much easier to train than the Russian ones, Mexican ones, South American ones, or the runaways they pick up off the streets.

He finishes assigning the English speaking women and moves onto the non-English speaking. These he does not personally assign. These will be cooks, farmers, sweatshop workers. They are worth less than the English-speakers and their jobs are less specialized. But if they are attractive enough they may still end up working at one of the brothels, only if they're truly special in their appearance. Some men don't care if a girl can speak English if she's stunningly beautiful. Some men enjoy the role-play factor associated with a beautiful woman from a foreign land. But none of the girls are today. The ones who cannot speak English tend to come from peasant stock, their skin rough and brown from years of working the fields. He's about to tell them to go back to their blankets on the floor when a flash of exceptionally beautiful, oddly pale skin meets his gaze.

Chaos points at the figure and one of the men pulls the person forward. It's a boy. He has extremely pretty eyes and full lips. He doesn't look at all like the woman he had been cowering behind. His face could be a little bit fuller though. He calls one of the older English-speaking women forward and points at the boy.

“Ask him how old he is.”

She seems stunned to be talking to and touches her gray hair uncertainty, but then turns to the boy and speaks to him. Then she turns back to Chaos.

“He says he just turned fourteen.”

“He should've went with the men,” Chaos says to one of his men, his voice annoyed. “Who let him with the women?”

“I'm s, sorry, he l, looks younger than fourteen,” one of the men stutters. Chaos doesn't recognize this one. He looks young. But he sort of looks like one of the older guards who has worked with him for years. Maybe his son. He'll let this slide, just once.

“The Chinese shipments are deceptive,” he says. “The peasants, in particular, often look smaller than their American counterparts. Please learn to spot the differences between a child and a teenager. Or you won't be working here much longer.”

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.” The young man sounds frightened. Good, maybe he'll learn after all. If his father does work for him he has a better chance.

The boy is grabbed by his arm by two of the men and begins to be dragged to the opposite side of the warehouse, towards the men. His mother calls out for him. Chaos can't understand her, doesn't even know what language she's speaking, but he recognizes the sound of a voice pleading. He stops them.

“I may as well inspect him now,” he tells them. “He's a very pretty boy. Hold him against the wall.”

He's slammed against the wall behind the group of women who all react with gasps and murmurs of fright. Chaos hears the mother's voice crying. The boy is shaking, his breathing gone ragged with fear. Chaos has his men yank the boy's trousers down to his knees. He takes a small bottle of lotion from one of the men and coats his index finger. The boy inhales sharply when he shoves his finger inside of him. But he doesn't fight back, doesn't scream or struggle or kick.

Chaos moves his finger inside of him, thrusting it in deep then pulling nearly out, gauging the boy's reactions. He's panting against the wall, his breath quick. He fucks him harder with one finger, feelings the boy squeezing around the digit. Chaos observes the erection already forming. He reaches up to brush the boy's prostate and the boy screams.

Chaos pulls out and smirks. You never know by just looking at a boy how well he'll do.

“Men will like him,” he tells them, “He's tight and obedient and obviously a screamer. Have him put in the brothel on Elm.”

“Isn't he a bit old for that one?” Cartman asks, his voice unctuous with disdain. “He's a teenager.”

“He's too small for the clientele on Gardenia,” Chaos says. “And he's obviously suffering from malnutrition. He'll do better on Elm for now. We'll have him moved to Gardenia in a few months once he's fattened up.”

Less of the men speak English than the women. He sorts them quicker, only assigning one other boy to the brothel on Gardenia, an older teenager with multiple piercings in one ear. His father tries to go after Chaos when his son is led away. He shocks him with the cattle prod twice and he goes down, screaming.

“Send him to the fields,” he says, changing his previous assignment at one of his call centers. “If he can't behave, then we'll have to break him.”

All in all, it's not a bad haul. Thirty-seven women, forty-two men, and twelve children. Only a couple of the children are old enough to accompany their mothers in the factories but the rest will be able to help out eventually. One of the children is able to speak English, despite only being five, and he asks one of the guards to set a follow up in a year for her. She might make a good housemaid for a client who wishes to raise one from a young age. She's too small to be anything more than a hassle right now though.

Cartman walks him back to his car.

“You heading out already? It's barely ten.”

“I still have to meet up with Carl,” Chaos sighs as if the weight of the world were on his shoulder. He climbs into the Sting Ray and turns the key. Cartman stands next to him.“Make sure our two guests get sent to their families safely. I know Tuttle has been dipping his fingers into the honeypot lately. I don't care if he's fucking the older ones, but he isn't to touch the virgins or the guests.”

“Tuttle likes fucking the boys,” Cartman says, leaning his arm onto the top of the car so he can speak to Chaos. “Nobody cares if the boys are virgin.”

“Well don't let him fuck that Wu boy,” he says firmly. “We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Okay, boss,” Cartman says. He steps away from the car and allows Chaos to go on his way.

His meeting with Carl goes as usual. Carl isn't available immediately so he's lead inside to watch the dancers while he waits. An uncharacteristic grin lodges itself onto his face when he recognizes Sunflower on stage. He's nearly done with his routine, clothes ripped off so he's in nothing but a gold matte g-string. It looks like it's made for a girl. Sunflower is not very blessed in that department but it still bulges under the strain of his soft penis. He starts when he recognizes Chaos, and then licks his lips, his mouth parted. The watchers seem to like that impromptu display of sensuality as a few more dollars are tossed at him. He snaps back to himself and grabs back onto the pole, wrapping one leg around it and sliding down so it rubs against the bulge in his panties. He's still dancing when Carl calls him into the office.

He hands Carl the flash drive and stands behind him, watching the club owner of Rosehips Gentleman's Club scan through the selection of pictures. These aren't from today's shipment, Chaos is renowned for his quality of girls and he does not offer them to anybody until they've all been tested and received clean bills of health. Carl is his oldest and most loyal client, he receives first dibs on all of the new girls. He selects one girl and surprises Chaos by selecting one of the boys as well.

“You lose one?” he asks. Rosehips only has male dancers on Fridays and Saturdays, when the club is the busiest. The rest of the week they're not worth the money, not enough patrons want to watch male strippers at noon on a Wednesday.

“Barry,” he says, clicking through the last few prostitutes available on the drive. The slideshow ends and the screen goes black. “His contract was up last week. You don't remember?”

“Like I can keep track of every prostitute I sell you,” Chaos rolls his eyes. “It's been five years already?”

“Six,” Carl corrects him, closing the laptop.. “We signed him up for one more year but he's aged a lot in the last year. We earned his payoff after four so it's still a gain for us.”

Chaos nods. When he sells his contracts to third parties he writes off the debt entirely on his side. If their new masters lie to them about when exactly their debts are paid off it's none of his concern.

“Is that Sunflower's only performance tonight?”

“Of course it is,” Carl rolls his eyes. “He's a crowd pleaser but nobody wants to just look after midnight. If you'd let me rent him out, he'd pull in a lot more with the later crowd.”

“I already told you he's not for sale,” Chaos says. “You're lucky I still let him dance for you at all.”

“Okay, Daddy Chaos.” Carl grabs one of the speakers that all the staff has access to. He presses the button down and speaks into it. “Bring Sunflower in for his sugar daddy.”

“Right away.”

Sunflower is already out of his stripper garb, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a Nirvana shirt. There's hints of glitter on his face still, his blond hair teased up. His backpack is flung over his shoulder in a way that exudes both laziness and sensuality. He's looking at Chaos with a peculiar look on his face. His pupils are dilated. Chaos wonders what he's on tonight. He supplies the boy with enough drugs to take down an elephant. Or send one into space.

Chaos stands up to greet him, slipping an arm possessively around his waist.

“We're finished, you ready to go?”

Sunflower nods. His mouth twitches. Coke, maybe. Sunflower is a big fan of coke, especially when he's performing. He likes heroin on Sunday mornings.

The valet driver opens the door for Chaos first, then goes around and lets Sunflower in his side. Sunflower drums his fingers on his leg almost the entire ride to the apartment and his eyes keep darting around like he's waiting for a bullet to come crashing through the window.

One of the things Chaos appreciates most about Sunflower is how well-trained he is. He could just keep a slave, not one of the Chinese (he's partial to blondes), but some of the Russians are attractive enough. But he likes Sunflower. He's kept Sunflower by his side for years and he knows how he likes his drinks, where he likes to have his feet rubbed, and which nights he wants the fireplace running and which he doesn't.

But he's not Sunflower anymore. Not once he crosses the threshold into his lush penthouse apartment.  
“  
Not the whiskey tonight, Tweek,” Chaos tells him. “I'm feeling the Mezcal.”

Tweek Tweak nods. Chaos takes his armchair in front of the fireplace, putting his feet up on the footrest. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, taking a moment to relax, as he listens to the blond banging around in the small kitchen. He hears pouring liquid. The clink of ice.

Tweek sets the drink on the table next to him and then goes to get the fireplace going. It's a gas fireplace, though still elegantly lined with marble, so it doesn't take much work. It blazes to life and Tweek stands obediently in front of him, waiting for further orders. Some nights that may be something as simple as a cigar and a foot rub. Some nights he takes Tweek into the bedroom, ties him to the bed with electric nipple clamps pinching his little pink buds and a vibrator up his ass, and leaves him there as he heads down the street to eat dinner at the twenty-four hour diner on the corner.

Today falls somewhere in between.

He pats his lap and Tweek climbs into it, a leg on each side of him. He sits back on Chaos' thighs, his head turned down obediently.

Chaos takes his face into his hand and kisses him. Softly at first, almost gentle, but only for two seconds, three seconds. Then he deepens the kiss, his fingers digging into the side of Tweek's bony face. He moves his hands up, grabbing his hair. It's crusty with hairspray.

“You miss me?” He coos against his glitter-dusted eyelid.

Tweek nods. Chaos knows he's lying, but that's fine.

“It's been awhile,” Chaos says. “Almost two weeks since I last looked at my boy's beautiful face.”

“Y, you just saw me Friday morning,” Tweek whispers back.

Chaos grips Tweek's hair harder. The man whimpers, but doesn't protest. He probably thinks Chaos is punishing him for back talking him. He's not. He's angry that Tweek, his Sunflower, had been in contact with that little vermin. Tweek belongs to him.

“Have you been thinking of my big, throbbing cock inside of you?”

Tweek nods. Chaos loosens his hands from Tweek's blond locks and slips them down his back, over his hip. He grabs his ass and begins to knead it through his skinny jeans.

“Your boyfriend can't satisfy you like I can, can he?”

He shakes his head. His eyelashes shine with tears. It compliments the glitter still clinging to them.

“Did you think about me when he was fucking you this week?” Chaos demands to know. Demands that Tweek answers him. Demands to know if he's been following his orders.

Tweek nods again. It's probably a lie. There's a chance it might not be. Maybe the blond does thing about Chaos on top of him, of how much better his dick feels inside of him than his boyfriend's pathetic excuse for a penis. He'd asked Tweek how big it was before and he had said about seven inches. He unbuttons Tweek's jeans. The man sits up on his knees and lets the other blond tug his pants down halfway down his thighs. Chaos grabs a cheek in each hand and massages them, spreading them. He slips a finger between his cheeks and caresses his entrance, but he doesn't push in.

“You're too loose to be content with such a small cock aren't you?” Chaos asks, nudging at his asshole with just the tip of his finger. “You're such a cock-hungry slut you need a giant cock like mine to fill you up right, don't you?”

Tweek nods. Chaos slips just the tip of his finger in. He's dry so that's all that he's willing to press in for now. He feels Tweek squeeze around him.

“Tell me you want it,” Chaos commands him.

“I want it,” Tweek responds obediently.

“What do you want?” He smirks as Tweek presses back against his finger, slipping in just a fraction of an inch further.

“I want your giant cock inside of me.”

“Well, get yourself ready then.”

Tweek nods. He knows where the lube is. He leans over Chaos, opens the drawer of the table where his drink sits still untouched, and fishes out the lube.

There are no condoms in the drawer. Tweek is the only person Chaos fucks without a condom.

The skinny addict leans against Chaos' chest, his head on the other man's shoulder, as he fingers himself. He has to be quick about it, he knows Chaos doesn't like to wait. He only gives him about a minute then he grab's Tweek's hand and pulls it back. His fingers make a squelching noise as they're pulled from the vacuum of Tweek's tight ass. He feels Tweek grab his dick in his hand, already hard from just watching the other man ready himself, and align it with his hole. Chaos sets his hands on Tweek's bony hips and presses him down. He sinks onto Chaos' cock with a long sigh. Like he's been given a long awaited drink of water.

It's a joint effort. Tweek rides him like an expert, he's been fucking him for too long for him to not be one at this point, and Chaos responds by thrusting up into him and using his hands to pull him down. It's rough and the force of it has Tweek squealing like a pig being slaughtered. Chaos grits his teeth as he gets closer, the slapping of skin on skin obscene. He watches the man riding him. His eyes are clenched shut, his mouth open, and he's breathing like he's just run a 5K.

“Butters!” Tweek moans as he gets closer. His flat chest expands and contracts with his breathing. He's all bones and skin, the body of an addict. He's one of the few people who is smaller than Chaos in certain ways, though obviously he's still taller. “Fuck. Harder!”

Chaos reaches up and grabs his throat, squeezing. He's so thin, the hollow of his throat stands out prominently, cradled in Chaos' palm.

Tweek cums almost immediately. It splatters on Chaos' shirt but he didn't dress nicely today, not when he had to visit the warehouse. He doesn't mind.

He presses Tweek back down and holds him in place as he grinds up into him for another thirty seconds. Then he hugs him, his arms going around him, pulling him against his chest. Tweek squeezes tighter around him as he feels him cum inside of him.

There is no afterglow. Within seconds Tweek is climbing off of him, walking towards the bathroom to get a towel to clean them both off. Chaos reaches for his drink, sighing with satisfaction. 

Nobody knows what Chaos likes better than Tweek Tweak.


	5. Butters

“Aw shucks, are you sure it's no trouble to reschedule for today?” Butters held the phone to his ear, eagerly awaiting Kenny's reply. “Thanks Kenny, I owe you a million. I know it's just the key fob, but it means a lot that you'll help me out. Oh, hamburgers! Let me get going and I'll meet you at the shop.”

Butters hastily grabbed his keys off of the counter, slipped on his navy Crocs, which matched his navy sweater, and skipped into the parking lot. He climbed into his beat up car and hummed quietly to the mixtape he had made last year, but was too afraid to give to Kenny.

“Yo, Buttercup!” Kenny shouted, standing in front of the building. The mechanic shop looked closed, the bays shuttered and dark inside the windows. Kenny stood in an orange parka, hood down, and a pair of ratty jeans. Butters thought he looked swell, but blushed at the thought. His jeans weren't too tight and weren't too loose, hugging his frame around the waist and slouching at the knees. There was a tear in the denim near his thigh that he wished ran up just a little bit further.

But that wasn't a good thought. He was objectifying his old friend Ken for sexual satisfaction. His parents would be sore if they knew what he was thinking about.

“Ken, is the shop closed?” Butters squeaked as Kenny banged on the drivers side window. He rolled with window down as far as the motor would allow, about a third of the way, so he could hear Kenny.

“I can't hear you over, what is this? Are you listening to ‘Only The Good Die Young?’” Butters let loose a bashful smile as he turned down the stereo. “No, it's cool. Sort of a chick song, but cool. I can be down with some Billy Joel. You don't got to look all shy!” Kenny joked as the song faintly played.

The man sang about the trials and tribulations of having a crush on a Catholic girl. Butters used to play this song in his old house, with Linda and Stephen when he was in high school, letting it buzz in through his headphones. He used to imagine himself as that girl, and Kenny was the bad boy that would bust him out of this place.

He cut off the car before he said something stupid about this song to Kenny. Butters had decided that Kenny did not need to be enlightened about his teenage crush.

“You doing alright there? You look a little pale.” Kenny leaned against the hood, slouching on his elbow.

“You'll get your jacket dirty. I'd hate for that to be my fault.” Butters hopped out of the car, trying not to stare at Kenny's dirty blonde hair. Not that his hair was dirty. Kenny looked clean. He looked nice. Butters always thought he looked nice.

“Not to worry, kiddo.” Kenny smiled as he spoke, showing a gap in his teeth. “I'll just run it through the washer. It's real durable, got it when the Sears went out of business, you remember Sears right? Craig went with me, he left with like four full size mannequins, real bizarre that one.”

“I remember Sears, Ken. I'm not a kid, I'm almost thirty. We're almost thirty.” Butters rambled, flustered. His cheeks were scarlet as he twisted his keys around in his hands.

“I can't speak for you, Buttercup, but I'm already thirty. The dirty thirty.” Kenny's eyebrows wiggled as he leaned towards Butters, quickly swiping his tongue over his lips, then chewed his bottom lip ever so slightly. It made Butters stomach feel real weird, like a hot knot coming undone. Kenny let out a laugh as Butters looked away. “Hand over your keys, buddy. I'll get ya squared away. You just need a new watch battery. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were just looking for an excuse to see me.”

“Uh, that's not it. I just didn't want to mess it up. You looked real hard to find me this car and I want to take care of it. Shucks, it meant a lot. Remember, you looked under the hood and everything? We've just been through a lot together. Me and the car, I mean. The car and I have been through a lot. Shoot, I mean we have too. Not that I think of you that often. I mean, I think of you sometimes, but like average. Not that you're average. Aw man, here, just take my keys.”

Butters fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground as he grazed the palm of Kenny's hand with his fingertips. He didn't mean to, it just happened, he told himself. It was an accident.

Even if it was an accident, the contact made Butter's toes curl. 

Kenny skillfully popped the black casing off of the remote, using his dirty thumbnail to wiggle between the small crevasse. He plucked out a silver circle, tossing by the closed door of the shop, then rummaged around in his coat pocket replacing the battery. He quickly snapped the case back together. He pressed the unlock button and the headlights blinked a dim yellow.

“Good as new. Or as before? Sure you don't want me to keep an eye out for a new car?” Kenny had offered plenty of times before to look out for something more suitable for an aspiring teacher at, as he called it, the prestigious South Park Elementary. Butters didn't know about prestige and all that, but it sounded important and the phrase made him feel important. He didn't need a new car, even if he could afford one.

“Nah, Kenny, it's okay. What do I owe you? I just realized I had you fixing my car on a Sunday! This is supposed to be a day of rest. Jesus, how insensitive am I?” Kenny just laughed as Butters blathered on. “I'm being serious, Ken! It's a lot to ask you to do work on your day off. I don't like to write lessons on Sunday,” he did write lessons on Sunday though, “so it feels cruel to make you work today.”

“Calm down there, firecracker. The battery ran me all of eight bucks for a two pack. I've got the other one sitting in my junk drawer at home.” Kenny ran a hand through his hair, tousling it into his blue eyes. Butters stared at the way a few strands hung right in front of his eyelashes. He sure had dark eyelashes for a blonde, Butters thought. After a few moments Butters realized he had been staring at Kenny's eyes as he smirked.

“I gotta pay you, Ken. It's only fair. I've got a twenty in my wallet, is that enough?” Kenny let out laugh. It wasn't cruel, just a small chuckle as he brushed his hair out of his face.

“Here's the deal Buttercup, take me for some City Wok, maybe get me a drink, and I'll call it even. I haven't been getting enough face time with you anyhow.” 

“I'll get you two drinks, if that's what you want!” Butters rubbed his fists together as Kenny smiled at him. Butters wondered what it would feel like feel the gap in his teeth with his tongue. Kenny had a little stubble, would it hurt if they kissed too hard?  
“Take me in the Pontiac, my trucks running real funny.” Kenny smiled, sliding off of the hood and climbing into the passenger seat. Butters scrambled into his seat, pondering why the town mechanic had a truck that wasn't working.

The car, mercifully, started after four turns. Kenny grumbled something about the alternator as the car jerked into reverse. The stereo played softly, until Kenny reached forward, cranking the volume way up. They pulled out of the lot and Kenny was singing along, looking at Butters from the other side of the car.

“You might have heard I run with a dangerous crowd. We ain't too pretty. We ain't too proud.” Butters thought about how Kenny had an excellent singing voice.

And he thought about how Kenny was plenty pretty.

As they drove through the small town, Butters pretended he was in his high school bedroom and Kenny was singing this to him from his window. Kenny in his old orange parka, perched precariously on the old oak branch that just barely scraped the window. As a teenager that daydream had always ended with Kenny climbing into his bed and kissing him on the mouth, hard.

Sometimes he'd even punch Stephen in the face as they ran out of the house, leaving the town to live in Hawaii, like when they were kids.

Somehow, real Kenny singing and drumming on his dashboard was better than all of those fantasies combined. 

“You gotta turn off the car, Buttercup, so we can go inside.” Butters turned the key while the car was still in drive, much to the horror of Kenny. “Let’s take it easy on the car’s transmission, alright? Transmision ain’t no City Wok payment, it’s more like rent.” Kenny shoved the stick into park. 

“I know Ken, I’m just thinking too much is all.” Butters wondered if holding the door open for Kenny would be wrong. It’s not like Kenny couldn’t open a door, it just made Butters stomach do summersaults to think about doing something nice for him. While Butters was lost in his thoughts on the subject Kenny was already propping the door open against his shoulder.

“Come on Butters, let’s get inside. Upstanding members of the community first.” Kenny said with a twinkle in his eye. Butters held back a laugh as he passed into the restaurant which smelled like stale grease and burning chicken. 

“Welcome to City Wok, can I take your order please,” A chinese man called out from behind the counter. “Oh, it’s just you child labor. There is no work, go home.” 

Kenny let out a snort, throwing his head backwards. “Lu Kim, just here with my buddy to get some food. I’m not child labor anymore.”

“You will always be special child labor to me. Two order of City Chicken for you and buddy.” Lu Kim tossed two paper drinks cups at the men as he rushed to the back. 

“Ken! I was supposed to buy you lunch, not the other way around.” Butters protested, slowly shuffling along the slick floor to the fountain machine. Sprite ran down his hand. He should have been paying attention to the machine but he was too sour over how he couldn’t even buy Kenny his lunch he promised. 

“Just buy me lunch next time. Or invite me over for dinner, shit Butters, it ain’t a big deal.” Kenny laughed, sitting into a cheap chair with a vinyl seat cover.

Butters phone started to ring before he could protest. He had never changed the ringer from factory settings, so some cheesy midi tune played throughout the restaurant.

“Hello?” Butters trembled, having glanced down briefly at the caller ID before pickup up. Eric Cartman was calling him. It was never good when Eric called. 

“Who is it?” Kenny mouthed, leaning on the table. 

“Eric, what a surprise? Why are you calling me on a Sunday?” 

“Put him on speaker!” Kenny shouted. “I wanna talk to that old fat bastard!” 

“I’m at lunch with Kenny, he wants me to put you on speaker, so hold on a second.” There was noise coming from Cartman's end, but it was nearly indecipherable. 

“Yo fatass!” Kenny shouted, sipping his drink.

“Ken, that’s not nice.”

“We’re talking to Eric fucking Cartman, there ain’t nothing nice about this whole situation. What’d your little crotch goblin do? Rip off a someone’s arm? Kick Mackey in the balls? Try to brainwash the lunch lady for not giving him an extra cookie?” Kenny was laughing as he went through the scenarios. 

“Eric, if you’re trying to reschedule that parent teacher conference we’ve already done that, twice. Colonel called a fellow classmate a dirty Jew, it’s not acceptable behavior for a fourth grader. South Park Elementary doesn't tolerate antisemitism.” Butters sighed, staring at the phone in the middle of the table. 

“I forgot all about that damn conference. Also shut your poor mouth, Kenny! You’re so poor that you couldn’t even afford to ask for one cookie.” Cartman’s voice was tinny through the speaker. 

“Look, we’re eating lunch. If you’re not calling about the conference, then why are you calling me?” Butters heard Cartman sigh over the phone, something about having to drive to Denver alone.

“I just forgot what I was gonna say, I’ll talk to you later.” Eric hung up the phone, and Butters stared at Kenny. 

“Eric sure forgets why he calls a lot.” Butters muttered. Kenny let out a laugh that almost made having to speak to Eric on his day off worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurrah for Kenny. I feel like if you read enough of my writing it becomes real clear which characters I like.


	6. Professor Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So PBJellie forced me to put my name back on this fic because she didn't want to be associated with this chapter. Like that's pretty insulting dudes.

Tonight's meeting isn't taking place at Strawberry Swirls. The club is a place for entertaining, a place for making money, but not the best place for discussing making money. Too loud. Too many flashing lights and dancing women. Too many distractions.

Professor Chaos has dressed less flashy but more elegant for tonight. His jacket is more expensive, his tie a finer quality of silk. Even his woolen coat is better made, though this is handed off at the doorway of the mansion before anybody besides the help is able to see it. The house, or mansion really, is large and therefore the party is large. The maid who takes his coat asks his name and jots it down onto a small slip of paper and then tears it in two, giving him the other half. It's just a number. Fifty-three. Chaos thanks hers and tucks the slip of paper into his wallet to keep safe for when he's ready to leave. He wouldn't want to make his exit with a more inferior garment than the one he had entered with. Not that he would be adverse to leaving with a finer garment, if the chance presented itself.

The club owner spots Chaos before Chaos spots him and that's disconcerting. Chaos doesn't like to be dropped in upon. He likes to be the one in control of situations. So when he hears his name and turns around to see the club owner he hurries to hide the displeasure on his face. But he's good at hiding emotions, it's not caught.

“Professor Chaos,” the taller man greets, smiling warmly and holding out a hand. He's dressed finely as well, but Chaos can tell by a quick glance his tie isn't as expensive as his own. And there's a loose thread on his dress shirt.

“Mr. Cotswolds,” he drawls back, taking his hand. “Your house is magnificent.”

“Housing here is cheap,” the man waves off the compliment. There's a brunette woman dressed in a long, shimmering ballgown to his left and even as he shakes the blond's hand he keeps his arm around her waist, holding her close to him. She has very large breasts but they aren't extremely noticeable since she's rather sturdy around the waist as well. “Anyway, all of the upstairs belongs to our girls. We only live in the bottom half.”

Ah, that means Peony is in the house. Good. That could make things less complicated for later on tonight. Chaos had received word earlier this evening that the Cotswolds were considering backing down on their deal, which is why the initial deposit had not been received at drop off. It had been previously agreed upon that they would pay a preliminary sum during the trial period and he had been displeased to hear that these funds had not come through. Again, he hides his displeasure.

“And this is Mrs. Cotswolds, I presume?” Chaos asks, holding out a hand to the woman. She isn't the most attractive woman Chaos has ever seen by far. Older than the girls he deals with, probably near his own age, and her hair is a dull shade of brown, already a few grays starting to streak the temples. The faintest signs of crow's feet crinkle her eyes when she smiles and takes Chaos' offered hand. He bends down to kiss the back of it. The skin there is still soft and supple but her age and mediocrity screams wife, not girlfriend or mistress.

“Ms. Cotswolds,” Mark Cotswolds corrects, “Ms. Rebecca Cotswolds. My sister.”

“Charmed,” Chaos releases her hand. She pulls it back slowly and reaches for her brother's arm, holding it more like a lover than a sibling. “You live here as well?”

“I look after the girls,” Rebecca explains, head held high with a sense of dignity. Chaos understands her words implicitly. She's their madame. Well, that's a good move. Keeping it in the family assures no double crossing.

“Splendid,” Chaos purrs. “Then you have had time to become acquainted with Peony?”

“Yes,” Rebecca nods. “She's barely left her room since she's arrived, but that's to be expected.”

“Let us discuss this matter later, perhaps?” Mark interrupts his sister with a polite cough. “In a less sizable crowd?”

Chaos agrees. His timing at this party is coincidental. The charity ball must have been planned for at least eight months, long before Chaos and Mark had started discussing business plans. The type to frequent these sorts of events don't necessarily take kindly to indentured servitude, especially in the sex trade.

“Let me show you the backyard,” Mark offers, sweeping his arm to one side as if he wishes Chaos to lead the way. Rebecca steps away from her brother, setting an empty glass on a nearby table.

“I need to take to Claudette,” she excuses herself. “The doctor put Joshua on that new ear medicine and I want to make sure she doesn't mess up the dosage before putting him to bed.”

“I'll see you out by the pool?” Mark asks his sister.

“I'll find you,” she promises.

Chaos watches her go, the hem of her dress exposing just a flash of chunky heel. Not the most balance or fashionable of women, but something about her is admirable. Her self assurance, maybe. Not many women show that level of consciousness around Chaos.

“You have children?” Chaos asks. He keeps a decent distance between the two of them, knowing the closer he has to this man the shorter he'll feel.

“Five,” Mark smiles proudly, showing perfectly straight teeth. Chaos wonders how old they were the first time this man impregnated his sister. The taller man grabs a glass of Champagne from a passing waiter and Chaos follows his example. It's freshly opened, bubbling, and crisp. Chaos appreciates that fact. He is not a big fan of flat or overly sweet Champagne. The bubbles make his nose twitch.

The entrance to the backyard is a pair of wide French doors. It leads outside to a large patio lit with tea lights and lanterns. The front railing overlooks a large, luminescent pool below, a mosaic of a large sea turtle visible on the bottom. Classical music fills the air but he sees no musicians nearby, there must be speakers hidden in the shrubbery.

“Your kids use the pool a lot?” Chaos asks, leaning against the railing. The water below is calm.

“Only the oldest two,” Mark says, taking a sip from his Champagne. “The younger three are a bit young still. Nicole is turning three next month though, Rebecca is going to sign her up for swimming lessons in the summer.”

“You take your kids to public classes?” Chaos asks, arching an eyebrow in surprise. Mark is not leaning against the railing and it makes the height difference between them more pronounced. Chaos ignores it and turns so both elbows are pressed against the cold metal. He wonders if the pool is heated. It must be, otherwise it would be iced over. Not warm enough to swim in though. Not in the winter. Maybe he heated it tonight only for appearance. Nobody wants to look over a frozen pool.

“She thinks it's good for them,” Mark waves a hand dismissively. “We were home-schooled as children, kept very sheltered from general society. We have tutors for them but she likes them to take part in more social activities. Being sequestered as we were when children...that kind of upbringing can mess up a child.”

“Nevertheless,” Chaos says, watching the older man pull out a cigar case from his inner jacket pocket, “It must have help strengthen your sibling bond.”

“That's true,” Mark agrees, removing a cigar. He holds it out for Chaos, who takes it, and then removes a second one for himself. “Still, I used to want to go to public school as a child. Our parents let us try it out for a couple days once but they became overprotective over a few hiccups and had us removed from the public education system for good. Do you need a light?”

“Please,” Chaos requests.

He could hand Chaos the lighter but instead he leans forward with it and allows Chaos to hold the cigar up to the flame, puffing at it until it catches light. It's a hand-rolled cigar, recently cut, but besides that Chaos isn't enough of a connoisseur to determine the quality of this product. There had been a time where he had considered entering the Cuban cigar trade but it had turned out to be more of a hassle than it was worth. Still, he can by the smoothness of the first draw say that this isn't some gas station brand tobacco. They smoke in companionable silence, watching the other party goers mingle among themselves.

“Mark,” Rebecca's low voice comes from Chaos' right. “The Tomlinsons are looking for you.”

Chaos looks up and sees the two together, how much they look alike but how different their features affect them. The same long nose that makes Mark look dignified gives his sister an appearance of a miserly school marm. The full lips that soften Rebecca's face touches Mark with a boyish quality that is not all together welcome for a businessman. They both possess a charming scattering of freckles across the bridge of their nose and along their upper cheeks. Mark is the more attractive of the two by far, Rebecca just leaning a tad too masculine for conventional tastes. Chaos can't tell if Rebecca is but a female Mark or if Mark is a male offshoot of Rebecca.

“We'll talk after the auction is complete,” Mark promises Chaos. “Everyone should be heading out about then.”

“You should bid on something,” Rebecca suggests, already starting to pull her brother towards the doorway back into the house. “There's a vacation package to the Virgin Islands that includes a meal at a fabulous seafood restaurant. I'd bid on that one, personally.”

“I'll think about it,” Chaos promises, lifting his glass in farewell. He keeps the false smile on his face until they're back inside then he frowns at the pool before him. The Virgin Islands. Right. Like he could just take this pathetic body of his and disappear for a couple weeks. Surely the cockroach who dominates this pathetic shell the majority of the time wouldn't notice anything weird about that. Besides, if Chaos had control of how often he was conscious he'd never give up that control. All of his plans are made on an “if I'm available” policy. He knows that whenever he falls asleep he most likely will not wake up again for two or three nights, though lately that time has been diminishing. He has suspicions why, but none of them are ones he likes to think about. He's just happy to have more time to himself. More time to relax instead of being constantly busy with his business transactions.

Still, he has all this money and nothing to do with it. The Sting Ray and his apartment are nice touches but they're not extravagant vacations. Even his official businesses are in Cartman's name since Professor Chaos has no true identity. No social security card. No birth date. No credit history.

Sometimes, he wonders how it would feel to have a real lover. A real home. Maybe even a pet? There's the salt water aquarium at the apartment, the one in the bedroom, but that's more of a decoration than a pet. The automatic feeder takes cares of the daily work and there's a guy who comes in weekly to clean and take care of it otherwise.

There had been a ferret once, a gift from a client who bred them as a pastime. It had died when that pain-in-the-ass had taken a sudden trip to the east coast for a dead great aunt or some shit. Apparently ferrets couldn't go two weeks without water. It wasn't that Chaos had been particularly attached to the ferret, though he did enjoy watching it hunt the small white mice he had thrown on the ground for it, but it was the principle of the thing. That a creature more pathetic than those doomed little rodents could have such control over his life. Chaos controls the lives of so many others, of men and women and children, but he lacks any control at all over his own.

His thoughts are dark when a hand grabs his shoulder. He whirls already quickly, slapping at the appendage, and quickly apologizes. It's Troy, a real estate mogul that owns several luxury hotels and apartment complexes throughout Denver, including his own.

“Lost in thought,” he explains brusquely. “Forgot where I was for a moment.”

Troy knows all about Chaos' business dealings. He understands the need for discretion. Chaos doesn't explain what he's really thinking, allows the older man to assume he was paranoid about petty thugs or hit-men. Better than admitting he was letting himself wallow in self-pity.

“Never saw you as the charity auction type, Chaos,” Troy greets jovially.

“I'm not,” Chaos agrees. “But sometimes these parties have the best drinks. And the best people.”

“Oh, definitely,” Troy agrees. “Speaking of which, let me introduce you to a few of mine.”

Chaos mingles expertly throughout the night. It's something he's good at. If you're a reasonably intelligent human being and care little of the opinion of others it makes coming off as charming and well-spoken exceedingly easy. In his experience, many people would be more able to pull off being likable if they simply ceased to care about being liked.

He doesn't bid on anything at the auction. These things are such rip offs. If he wanted to donate, he'd donate. If he wanted to buy a Ming vase he'd talk to his Chinese contacts and get a better deal on a rarer objet d'art.

As promised, the crowd begins to thin out after the auction. Within an hour Chaos recognizes the majority of the remaining two dozen or so guests, having worked closely with half of them and heard the reputations behind another five or six of them. He hears murmurs among them regarding the spa by the pool. The champagne flutes on the trays have miraculously transformed into martini glasses. Chaos snags a passing martini and chews on the olive as he scans the crowd for anything interesting.

“Still here?” a shapely arm intertwines with his own. Chaos looks at Rebecca, having to tilt his chin up just the slightest. She's only an inch or so taller than him, maybe his same height without her shoes. Hard to tell since his own loafers are thick-soled.

“I believe we still have business to discuss,” he reminds her.

“Business, business,” she teases him, her smile suggestive of something more playful hiding deep inside her. “Come upstairs. Mark will meet us soon. I want to show you the quarters.”

“Do they take clients in their rooms then?”

“No,” she shakes her head as she leads him to the stairs. She releases her arm so she can hold the hem of her dress, stopping herself from tripping or ripping the expensive fabric. “They're all out working right now. We made sure to send them out tonight before the guests started arriving.”

It's not a bad set up. Chaos has seen better but he's seen far worse. He's seen some girls kept in chains with nothing but a blanket on the floor to call a bed. Each girl has an assigned room in this spacious mansion. They're not large and he's guessing some of them were split in two at one point or another but there's a decent size living area in the middle, complete with a small kitchen. All the rooms are personalized with knick knacks; posters, faux fur throw pillows, dolls, bookcases. It reminds Chaos of a dorm. Not that he had ever lived in a dorm. He had completed his education entirely online, not trusting that spineless insect to be free at the same time Chaos would need to take night classes. Not that a PhD in art history was worth much anyway, but he felt like a higher level of education would raise him to a level above his competition. And it does help sometimes when talking to more important clients.

Only one girl is upstairs in her room. Peony. Not her real name of course, but nobody wants to call girls by their real names. She's from the recent shipment just a couple days ago, the eighteen-year-old with the perfect teeth. Now she sits demurely on the edge of her bed, head tilted down. She sniffles every so often. Probably trying to keep in her tears. She should be happy to be here. She could still be in the filthy warehouse, or chained up in a basement, or working some rice field halfway across the world just waiting to catch malaria.

“She's very pretty,” Rebecca observes, watching her from across the room. “And very subservient. Mark approves of her, don't let him tell you otherwise.”

“Oh, was he going to attempt to hustle me?” Chaos smiles at the woman.

“Maybe,” she admits, smiling coyly back at him. She takes a step closer to him, reaches out just a few inches to toy with his tie. “He doesn't know a well-bred man when he sees one. He thinks he can haggle with you like you're one of those street thugs that sell him the runaways.”

“Does he now?” Chaos asks, watching her fingers running along the silk. Her fingers are manicured but elegant, no gaudy rhinestones or glitter. The same light violet as her gown.

“Don't worry about him,” she assures, running her fingers up the tie. She touches Chaos' throat. Her fingers are cold. “I'll take care of him.”

“Take care of who?” a gruff voice demands.

Chaos turns his gaze upwards to see Mark walking towards them down the hallway. He does nothing to move the larger man's sister away from him, despite the compromising position.

“You, dear brother,” she teases, her hand now touching Chaos' jaw.

Mark reaches between them and closes the door of Peony's room. The hallway seems lighter without the darkness of the room seeping in.

“Yeah?” he asks, looking at both of them. “What are you going to do to take care of me, exactly?”

“What I always do, dear brother.”

This feels like a game. One that they've played before but he's just learning the rules of. But Chaos likes games. And he's good at them. He picks up the rules quickly. Normally, Chaos is in charge in these situations but he allows himself to tilt forward just the slightest, barely noticeable really, if you weren't waiting for a sign to continue. But Rebecca accepts the sign and meets his movement with her own, kissing Chaos hard. One of her hands is still holding his tie and the other that had been on his jaw slides up to entwine its fingers in his hair. That means when he feels a hand on his lower back that it doesn't belong to Rebecca. Mark's lips touch his throat softly, followed by just the barest nip of teeth. He turns to kiss Mark then, taking control of this kiss despite the fact he has to tilt forward on his toes to reach him. Mark presses against his side, pliant as a pillow against him.

Rebecca leads them to one of the nearby rooms. Not into their bedroom. Probably doesn't like to take strangers to their own bedroom. Most likely this is one of the girl's bedrooms. It smells like body spray and lotion and there's a pile of condoms sprawling across the table beside the bed. She kisses Mark then, pushing him onto the bed and sitting on his hips. Her dress is scrunched up around her thighs, the white of her legs exposed. They both look towards Chaos, as if waiting for him to be horrified by the sight. He reaches up to loosen the knot on his tie.

“I don't bottom,” he tells them.

“Neither do I,” Rebecca smirks at him. “My dear brother here enjoys a nice, big cock in him every so often, however. I do my best with my strap-on but sometimes it's not enough.”

“Is that true?” Chaos arches an eyebrow as he looks at the man sprawled out beneath his sister. His pupils are large with lust already. “Do you like nice, big cocks?”

Mark nods, licking his lips. His eyes are on Chaos' crotch. He's not fully hard yet but Chaos is both a show-er and a grow-er, half-hard still creates an impressive bulge in his pants. He watches Rebecca undress her brother, taking his time removing his own shirt and shoes. He makes sure they're both looking when he finally pulls off his bottoms. Mark reaches for him but Rebecca slaps his hand away and pins them both at his side. She's more hippy than the girls Chaos normally seeks out, a little saggy in the breasts maybe. He supposes five children will do that to you.

Still, she feels good against him when he climbs onto Mark behind her, pressing his chest against her back and his dick against the cleft of her ass. Her breasts are large, overflowing in his palms. He squishes them back against her chest and squeezes them with his fingers parted, enjoying the feel of them overflowing in his small palms. They're large but natural, not an entirely common occurrence. He grabs one of the condoms off the table and his hands brush her ample ass as he rolls it onto his dick. It's lubricated.

“I told you, I don't take it there,” she reminds him breathlessly. “If you want to shove it up an asshole you're going to have to fuck my brother.”

“In due time,” he assures her. He continues to fondle her left breast with his palm but moves his right hand down to feel Mark solid beneath him. His stomach is flat, harder than his own with a hint of a happy trail, but he makes an unstable platform. He's breathing heavily, too heavily, it makes his entire body tremble. It'll be like fucking Tweek when he hasn't had his fix, not an all together unpleasant prospect.

He pulls his hand back towards himself and finds Mark's cock. It's hard and wet but he can't tell if that's because he's already leaking pre-cum or because it's nestled against the dripping lips of his sister's pussy. She's all natural, or maybe trimmed at best, and the coarse hair there is slick with wetness. Chaos presses the erection forward, feeling with his fingertips, already soaking with juices. The head of the dick slides against the engorged clit. Rebecca makes a stifled sound as she rubs against it. Chaos bites at her shoulder.

“Don't, don't you want him first?” Mark asks, his arms still pinned to his sides. “Evelyn told her about how big you were the other night and she wanted to try it out.”

“Mark,” Rebecca warns, her voice going low. She releases Mark's hands finally and he reaches for her instantly, one hand touching her ribs.

“Nothing wrong with a woman who knows what she wants,” Chaos drawls.

“It's not just about size,” she insists. “Size is pointless if you don't know what to do with it.”

“Agreed,” Chaos says. “Here, I'll show you what to do with it.”

Chaos grabs at the curve of her right shoulder and presses her forward, maneuvering her so she's lying down on top of her brother. Mark takes the opportunity to kiss her and he watches the flash of tongue appear and disappear and reappear between them. His, hers, maybe both. Their eyes are closed. Their hair is the same color and it blends together in a mass of soft brown locks. Chaos reaches his hand down and finds Rebecca's sex, sliding two fingers into her. Her pubic hair tickles around his knuckles. He curls them up and rubs against her g-spot and she clenches around him.

“Here,” he presents his dripping fingers to Mark. “Taste your sister.”

The man opens his mouth obediently and sucks on Chaos' fingers, his eyes closing again.

“No,” Chaos barks. “Look at me. Look at your sister.”

Mark opens his eyes again and stares at them both, his brown eyes half-lidded and unwavering. He moans around Chaos' fingers. He parts the digits and Mark licks between them now, cleaning all his sister's juices from the blond's fingers. Chaos uses his freehand to guide his cock up and slides into Rebecca. She grunts and digs her hands into the blankets around Mark's head. Chaos pulls his hand from Mark's mouth.

“Is he in?” He's trying to raise onto his elbows so he can look down at where Chaos and Rebecca are connected.

“Yeah,” she breathes.

“How's he feel?”

“Big,” she manages to get out. “Wide.”

“Is it too much?”

She shakes her head. Chaos feels her hair move against his chest. He doesn't like the sensation so he grabs it in one hand, gathering it into his fist, and pulls at it. She moans happily and trembles around his length. Still clenching the curtain of hair, he presses his fist between her shoulders and holds her there, holds her down flush against her older sibling, her head back and throat exposed. She's tight, tighter than he'd think a mother of five could be, and very hot inside. No wonder Mark forgoes sleeping with all these teenage prostitutes that surround him.

He watches them together as she fucks her into her brother's muscular frame. She fights Chaos' grip on her hair, trying to reach her brother, so he moves his hand up to her shoulder, giving her more free reign. They kiss frequently, Rebecca often breaking it when she stops to moan or gasp in pleasure. At one point Chaos releases her hair and grabs onto her hips, holding her still as his thrusts become harder and more erratic but it's not enough. She's slick with sweat and Mark is dripping beneath her. She slides against him, stomach against stomach giving no resistance. Her tits end up pressed against Mark's face and he takes them into his mouth, one at a time, lavishing her nipples with attention, as well as plenty of saliva. Every time he bites down on one she clenches around Chaos' cock. The sight of the two touching each other makes the entire experience much more stimulating. He pulls out before he can cum.

Grabbing her by the hips, he pulls her back into place lower on Mark's hips, pulling her up so he can squeeze her breasts once more. The nipples are engorged and damp with spit now and she shakes when he pinches her nipples. The break gives time for his throbbing erection to calm down. He needs to step back from the brink. It's no fun if he cums before he even gets to fuck Mark. Speaking of which, the older man is painfully hard when Chaos reaches for him. The only stimulation he's received has been the rubbing of two bellies on each side. Not enough for a grown man, maybe a teenager losing his virginity for the first time but not a father of five. He holds him still as Rebecca lowers herself on top of him. Despite the size difference she sighs contentedly, obviously knowing the feeling of her brother's cock when she encounters it.

“Good?” Chaos whispers hotly into her ear.

“Always,” she sighs.

“Better than me?”

“He's my brother,” she says, her voice apologetic. She says nothing more but Chaos gets the gist. Nothing is better than her brother's cock. Well, maybe one thing can be.

He's still wet with her juices, she definitely has none of that “dreaded personal dryness” the commercials are always bitching about. He reaches back between her lips anyway, soaking his fingers. She starts to ride her brother and his hand brushes against Mark's cock. He can feel the veins through her slickness, the softness of the skin in contrast to the coarseness of her hair. Each thrust brings forth another packet of her wetness. Chaos rubs at her clit to distract her, latching onto her throat in the meantime. Overwhelming her with pleasure.

She barely notices when he nudges at her asshole. The tip of his finger slips in easily without protest but she stills on top of Mark when he slips his entire index finger inside her. But she doesn't tell him to stop.

“Feels good?”

“Y, yeah,” she says uncertainly.

“What?” Mark asks, his voice in a daze. Only really paying attention because the sensation of a cunt sliding along his shaft has come to a sudden halt. She braces her knees and goes back to grinding against him. His fingers clench at her hips.

She stiffens when he slips the middle finger in beside the index but she doesn't stop riding her brother. But she makes a pained noise and stills once more when he nudges just the tip of his third finger in. Her asshole spasms around the digits.

“Rebecca?” Mark asks, his voice concerned.

“It's, it's nothing,” she assures him, “I just need a moment.”

“Okay,” he says uncertainly. She kisses him reassuringly and he melts back onto the bed, complacent. Chaos slides all three fingers in deep and moves them slowly, spreading them to open her. She's much tighter here than the other entrance. He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on his own cock, making sure he's as wet as he can be. Lube would be better, the pre-lubricated condom really isn't enough. But she doesn't tell him to stop. He pulls himself up onto his knees for better access, one on each side of Mark's lower thighs, and sinks into her slowly. Much more slowly than he'd prefer to but she's spasming around his cock like a poisoned cat dying. Not usually a sign of immense pleasure.

Mark finally catches on to what's happening. His hand touches Chaos' dick and the blond slaps his hand away.

“Stop it,” Mark demands. “You can't do that to my sister.”

“Mark, it's fine,” Rebecca gasps out, her voice as tight as her asshole. “You love it so much, maybe it's time for me to try it out.”

“But,” he begins helplessly, his voice dying off.

There are no further objections. Rebecca sighs, the air leaving her body, and Chaos recognizes that as permission to continue. It feels like he's fucking them both. Every thrust of his hips leaves Rebecca mewling and Mark groaning as she tightens and slides down his own shaft. She attempts to help the situation along, to set some sort of rhythm, but Chaos is soon thrusting into her hard and fast and neither of the siblings can do anything but go along for the ride. Rebecca, in particular, is a mess between them, soon sobbing out her pleasure as she gushes about how “fucking good” it feels. Chaos can feel her brother's cock against his own, certain areas only separated by little more than a layer of vulnerable skin. She yells out the Lord's name in vain a good dozen times before she's convulsing on both of them. Chaos continues to fuck her through her orgasm but pulls out as soon as she goes still, breathing heavily against her brother's chest.

He gives them a moment, letting her catch her breath, but he's not done yet.

“Fuck,” she sighs eventually. She sits up and scoots off her brother, falling to his side, clearly exhausted, as used and wrung out as an old towel. Her thighs are sleek with her own clear juices but there's nothing white and creamy there. Her brother is still hard, standing up at attention between his hairy thighs.

It's almost weird to be on top of him without Rebecca between them, but it won't be for long. Chaos pulls to the side as well and slaps Mark on the hip.

“Onto your knees,” he instructs, “It's your turn.”

Mark licks his lips and glances at his sister. Her eyes are closed and she's smiling. Chaos slaps him again. The man sits up and turns over. Even in this position he's tall. Chaos grabs a handful of his hair, much more forcefully than he had done with the man's sister, and forces his head onto the pillow.

“You might want to bite that,” he smirks, “Unless you want your guests below to hear you screaming as a fuck you.”

Mark moans pathetically at the image in his own mind. Chaos moves to begin the tedious process of opening the man but is met with a pleasant surprise. He's wearing a butt plug. The blond glances at the only woman in the room. Her eyes are open now, just slits, and she's smiling knowingly at Chaos.

“He's had it in since this morning,” she coos. “Don't worry, he's already cum twice today. He'll last.”

Beautiful.

Chaos pulls the plug out. It's much smaller than himself but after wearing it twelve-hours the man is plenty capable of taking him without any preparation. He's still tight, thanks to the smallness of the plug and the largeness of Chaos' cock. He doesn't fuck the brother like he fucked his sister. There's no gentleness or respect for this man. He's a submissive male, obviously a masochist in need of a good trainer, and Chaos fucks him like a lion fucks a lioness. He bites at his neck, his chest presses against the man's back, and snaps his hips in forceful, quick thrusts. He never pulls out far, more grinding in than fully thrusting, but it's exactly what Mark needs. Even with his face pressed into the pillow he's moaning soft, then loudly, then sobbing, then outright screaming. Chaos comes first, having held off as long as he could. He continues to fuck him, trying to fight the softening of his penis, needing to finish before the condom slips off him and gets lodged somewhere up the other man's ass.

Chaos bites at the brunette's throat hard enough he tastes blood. The pain of that bite is what causes Mark to shoot all over the girl's blankets, ending with one final wailing scream.

The blond collapses on the other side of the man, spent. Rebecca is on her brother instantly, kissing him, coddling him, asking how he feels. Mark is still incapable of talking.

When he does talk, an hour later in his study, his voice is hoarse. And he's fully dressed and impeccably put together, as if he wasn't on his knees being fucked into oblivion only sixty minutes ago.

Rebecca serves her brother a hot toddy, saying it'd be “good for your throat,” and Chaos smirks at the comment because obviously he knows what's wrong with Mark's throat.

“Would you like one as well?” she offers Chaos. He accepts, though his throat is perfectly fine.

“Whiskey though, please,” he requests, “I'm not a fan of brandy.”

She nods behind the wet bar, her head once more turned down demurely. She may be a top but only in the bedroom from the looks of it.

“Now about the girls,” Mark goes on after another thirty minutes of pleasantries. “I take no issues with the quality of Peony and I'm sure the ones to come will be just as good quality, but I believe the initial deal was that you would offer me better girls for the same price as the local streetwalkers?”

“Yes, of course,” Chaos agreed, because yes, that had been his offer to Mark. He had agreed on the price cut to seal the deal with the club owner. His girls are more subservient, more attractive, often virgins, and always disease free in comparison to the runaways and crack whores the local gangs sell out. But many buyers are more willing to buy a wasted crack whore for a lower price than a virginal flower from the Orient. So Chaos lowers his prices to edge out the competition. That's capitalism for you.

“But,” Mark continues, his voice steady and authoritative now, “Your man, Mr. Cartman, presented me with a bill today with a ten percent jack up for 'shipping and handling.' Now, don't get me wrong, I know the cost of shipping girls from halfway across the globe is more expensive than shipping them from some youth center in Boulder, but we had a deal. That is why I did not pay Mr. Cartman today, as we had previously agreed upon.”

“Shipping and handling?” Chaos frowns, looking down at the steaming drink in his hand. “That's ridiculous. We have no 'shipping and handing' fee. And if we did I wouldn't give it such a dim-witted name. These are the finest prostitutes available in the state of Colorado. Not an 'As-Seen-On-TV' pasta cooker.”

“So there is no additional ten percent price increase?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “May I see the receipt?”

“Yes, of course. Rebecca, oh, thank you.”

The buxom brunette is already at her brother's side, handing him a small leather notebook. He opens it and pulls out a piece of paper. It's handwritten, which is already a clear indicator that something is wrong. All of Chaos' papers to his clients are hand-typed, on an old-fashioned typewriter. Handwriting is too easy to trace back to an owner and even computer-printed papers can be traced back to a source. Mark hands the paper to Chaos and sure enough, there's a price increase, in Eric Cartman's handwriting, for an extra ten percent.

“This is not correct,” he says, his voice smooth despite the anger seizing his body. It's immediately clear what is happening here. Cartman was trying to dupe his client out of some additional funds to line his own pockets. He can't let Mark know what's going on though. He can't let him see some sort of weakness in his ranks. This is a personal matter. “I'm sorry, there must have been a miscommunication in our office. I'll cut an extra ten percent on Peony's price for the inconvenience.”

“Now, I wasn't asking for any special deals,” Mark cuts in.

“Don't worry about it,” Chaos assures. “Let's call it an act of good faith, a promise for many prosperous years to come.”

“Mark, just take the offer,” Rebecca nudges him with her hip. He moves over so she can sit in his chair with him. “Sorry, my brother can be such a dunce sometimes.”

Chaos escapes the mansion within the hour, meeting a few guests on the way out still clad in towels and seemingly nothing else. He bids them farewell and promises to join them in the spa next time, which he might follow through on if there is a next time. But it's getting late and he needs to get back to that insipid apartment.

He does have one more errand to make before going to sleep however. He drives all the way back to South Park, his anger seething inside of him, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel. He parks his car half a block away and walks quietly down the street, picks the lock of the door, enters the security code, and silently enters the man's bedroom.

Eric Cartman wakes to a gun pressed against his forehead. He's trembling as he looks up at Chaos, his lips parted.

Chaos smells urine.

“I could've killed you and your son before you even knew I was here,” Chaos hisses. “I know what you did with Strawberry Swirls. If you try to fuck me one more time you'll have a lot more to worry about than piss-stained sheets, got that?”

Cartman nods, silently.

“Good.” Chaos moves the gun back. Cartman collapses back onto his pillow.

“Stop by the Cotswolds tomorrow and present them with a real copy of their contract,” he instructs. Then stops to consider the situation. “Also, bring Ms. Cotswolds a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine, as compliments from me for a fine party. Tell Bebe they're for a dignified motherly woman, she'll pick out a good bouquet.”

Cartman nods again.

Chaos leaves a couple of bullet holes in the side of Cartman's Mercedes for good measure.

The apartment is exactly as Chaos had left it earlier that evening. He's hungry despite the hor d'oeuvres served at the party. Those had been small and light and he had since then fucked two siblings, hatched out a business deal, and threatened a business associate.

He throws his jacket on the back of a kitchen chair and raids the fridge for anything good. Not that this cretin would know good food if it bit him on the ass. There are some apples in the crisper though. He grabs one and sits at the table to eat it, already starting to feel distant from the action. Something about the apartment does that to him sometimes. He's not sure if the apartment itself somehow calls him away or if it's more of a Pavlov Effect, his mind associating the building with disappearance, but by the time he's opening the safe he feels like he's watching a movie. His fingers are moving on their own but he has no control over them. He watches his hands fold the woolen coat, sees a piece of paper flutter to the ground, and then his feet are carrying him into the bedroom. They seem distant and far beneath him, almost like he's about to lurch over. Then there's nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That had to be the only example of a Chaos/Rebecca/Mark threesome in the fandom. I hope at least one of you were slightly turned on by the idea of it.


	7. Butters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohee this was sort of a bitch to write. Hope you enjoy it.

“Eric, I'm sorry we're meeting under such unpleasant circumstances.” Butters smiled at the fat man in front of him. “Lexus, couldn't make it?” Eric's face looked sweaty, like he had eaten something bad. Butters wanted to ask if he was feeling alright, but instead he just crossed his legs underneath his desk.

Eric's bottom spilled over the folding chair that Butters hid in the closet for these meetings. He had purchased it himself, so he really hoped that the chair could withstand the weight. He wasn't too eager to spend another twenty five dollars on a chair that was only used occasionally.

This had become more than an occasional thing, though. Eric Cartman's son, Colonel, was constantly causing disturbances in the class. It was the last day before Thanksgiving break and he had seen Eric at least a dozen times. Usually he brandished his voice like a weapon, shouting over the small blonde man and making false accusations. Once he had shouted, loud enough for the two other fourth grade teachers to hear down the hall, that Butters was still mad about how Eric had sucked his dick that one time.

In a faltering voice he tried to assure Eric that, no, he wasn't mad about all that, but he was concerned about Colonel stealing food from a redheaded girl in class, then claiming that she was a vampire daywalker and didn't need to eat. He went on to say that she had gone around and drained the blood from the other students necks while we were watching videos on the solar system. The class broke out into a ruckus and Colonel had received a two day suspension. 

That was the fourth day in class and it had only gotten worse.

But this conference Eric was different. He was less standoffish, his shoulders curling in on his chest as he sat in the chair, avoiding eye contact with Butters at all costs. He almost looked afraid, at least to Butters.

“Okay, I guess it's just us then. That's swell, it'll be a real quick talk then, okay?” Butters tried to be chipper as Eric's eyes, opened too wide, were staring at the laminate floor.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Stotch.” This had been a new development to Butters. Eric had never called him that in a conference before. Maybe Kenny was right, scheduling a date for after the talk was good luck.

“Uh, so Colonel seems to think that Eminem is the anthem of white supremacy. Can you think of any reason why that would be? It's not appropriate to say in class, and it made some of the other students quite sour.” 

“I understand the situation at hand, sir. I’ll discipline accordingly.” Eric wrung his hands in his lap, pulling at the cufflinks on his white shirt. There were rings of sweat spreading from his armpits as he sat across from Butters. “Can I leave now, sir?” 

Butters couldn’t understand why Eric was being so formal. Normally he called Butters a cog in the wheel, just trying to churn out obedient sheeple. Eric really had a penchant for that word. Sometimes the students were sheeple, sometimes the teachers, sometimes the government. It really depended on the day. 

“Uh, sure? Just have Colonel stop talking about the new world order, okay? Thanks Eric.” Butters smiled, feeling good that his desk hadn’t been turned over this time. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your time.” And Eric was out of the room, tripping over his feet as he looked for the door.  
Butters let out a little laugh, arranging his desk for the break. That had gone much better than expected. He glanced around the empty classroom as he stood up, making a mental note to bring in his Christmas decorations early the next morning there was school. 

He meant holiday decorations. The school didn’t celebrate Christmas, and it was rude to think all the students had to follow his religion. He bit his lip as he mentally berated himself for being so inconsiderate. His dad would be so disappointed. 

He would say, “I taught you better than that. You know how to be inclusive. You are supposed to be a beacon for these children.” 

Butters sighed, closing the door on his classroom as he shook his head in shame. He sure did know better. He would work harder at being more PC. He would not disappoint Mom and Dad, not after all they had done for him. 

He thought about all the ways he had already disappointed them. He had gotten drunk at college once, in a frat rager, and he had groped a girl. She had said it was okay, of course, and he thought that her long blonde hair trailing down to her lower back was so pretty. He had shared that with his dad, how much he liked that girl. When asked what her name was he couldn’t remember. He had been so drunk. There was a lecture about treating women like human beings, and how dare you play grab ass with a woman whose name you don’t even know. He wasn’t mad, he was just so disappointed. 

Disappointed in how he didn’t even check to see if the woman could consent to sexual contact. He asked if she was drunk, a cusorary question as they stood next to each other by a ratty couch. She shook her head, biting her lip, then rubbed her hand on Butters’ shoulder. He was supposed to ask her about herself. Where she grew up, what kind of books she liked, what her name was, for Pete’s sake. Instead he let her drag his hand to her backside where he promptly squeezed like some kind of sex maniac. 

So disappointed that Butters had stopped drinking all together. He hadn’t touched a drop of the stuff since, afraid he’d bring more shame upon his family.

He was supposed to be meeting Kenny at PF Changs. Was it a date? He wasn’t sure. He hoped it was a date, but maybe it was wrong to hope for such a thing.

The drive over was uneventful. He locked his car in the parking lot, using the key fob with a smile. Kenny was leaning against his truck, wearing jeans without holes and a blue button up shirt. Those were not Kenny’s work clothes.

“Looking good, Buttercup.” Kenny’s face lit up. Butters dug a toe of his black sneakers into the concrete as Kenny kept staring. 

“Yeah, uh, same to you Ken.” They walked in together, Butters gazing at the oversized horses guarding the entrance to the restaurant. Kenny was holding the door open for his. His knees felt weak as he went into the lobby. Was it just Butters, or was the AC up too high?

Butters ignored the chill seizing his hands as Kenny asked for the table he had reserved. Wait, wasn’t Butters suppose to be paying for dinner? Why did Kenny reserve it?

“What can I get you to drink this evening?” The waiter, a tall black man with a red tie, asked. Butters didn’t catch his name, but he was too shy to ask. There was no nametag, so he’d just have to remember his face. Oh gee, what if he had a twin?

“Leo, what do you want to drink?” Kenny saying Butters' real name sent shockwaves through his stomach. He scrambled, pulling the oversize menu over his face, looking for a drink list. He could never find the dang thing. He used the trifold as a barrier, to keep his blush hidden from Kenny. 

“Lemonade? The pink kind if you’ve got it?” The waiter let out what sounded like a snort. Butters wasn’t looking, he was too busy trying to recover from being called Leo in that smooth voice. Butters wondered if Kenny would call him Leo if they made out. Or if he’d moan Leo instead of Butters if they touched penises. 

“I gotta go to the bathroom, Ken! I’ll be right back, it’s an emergency.” Butters bolted up, shuffling to the bathroom. He was successful ignoring the growing bulge in his pants as he went to hide in a stall for a few moments.

He tried his best to think unsexy thoughts, his grandma while she lay in the hospital. That was better. Sort of. He went through his laundry list of things that he wasn’t attracted to, like puppies with casts on their paws, basically that whole commercial where the lady sings about angels for the SPCA. It was just so sad how those dogs and cats were all alone, that people could be so cruel. 

He wasn’t turned on anymore, but he was crying. He spent more than a few moments trying to think of something happy, that wasn’t sexual, because Lord forbid he start the process all over again. He settled on the Puppy Bowl, which he had watched last year with his mom. It had been so sweet, all those puppies running around in that pretend field. There were even kitten cheerleaders. 

It had seemed to Butters that everyone was having a really good time.

He unlocked the stall, walking to the sink to splash water on his face. His watch, a digital one with a timer function, said that fifteen minutes had passed. 

“Oh, hamburgers!” He chided himself as he wiped at his face with a thin paper napkin. “Kenny probably thinks I bolted. Shucks, I hope his feelings aren’t hurt.” He rubbed his hands on his pants to get rid of the excess water, then grabbed for the metal door pull with slippery hands. 

There was a pink lemonade at his seat when he returned. Kenny had a mostly empty beer glass in front of him, legs crossed as he played on his phone. Butters hoped he hadn’t been too upset with him. Kenny was still smiling, but maybe there was something real funny on his phone. He always did share the best jokes with Butters. Was Kenny the joke writer for the internet? Was that why he was so funny? 

“You feeling okay, Buttercup?” Kenny was still smiling, but his phone was down on the table. “I went ahead and ordered us some food, but if you’re not feeling well I’ll get it packed up. I can just take you home if you want.” 

“Well shoot, I’m feeling just fine now. But if you want to go back to my apartment, that would be nice.” Butters’ hand shot up over his mouth as soon as he finished the statement. It was awful presumptuous to invite him back to his place. Kenny might have had plans, you can’t just interrupt someone’s plans like that. It’s not respectful.

“We can go to yours after, if you want. Sure you’re feeling okay? Don’t need to have any situations, you know?” Kenny was blushing a little as he took another sip out of his drink. Butters took his lead, trying to busy his mouth with the clear straw hanging out of his glass. 

He spent a good ten seconds trying to locate the straw with his mouth, his tongue swirling around the rim of the drink, before he poked himself in the nose. He finally used his hand to guide the straw to his lips, taking a long drink. He opened his mouth the say that there wouldn’t be any situations, that he was a real nice guy, nothing like that, but he instead swallowed his drink down his windpipe. 

“Hey, you okay?” Butters frantically nodded between bouts of uncontrolled coughing. He covered his mouth with his sleeve, but he had already coughed all over the little ramekins of sauce. “Just swallowed your drink wrong?” 

“I’m okay, Ken,” he managed to squeak out in a voice too high. He started coughing again as soon as he was done. Kenny was laughing, watching Butters shake his head forward as he coughed. Butters shook when he coughed, spilling lemonade all down his pants.

“Waiter, yeah just box up that chicken. Thanks so much, I’ll take the tab.” Kenny said, standing up to give Butter’s his napkin. Kenny’s hands felt nice as he patted down his legs with the white cloth. Butters was sure his face was a deeper shade of pink than the napkin was by the time Ken pulled away. 

Kenny was paying. That wasn’t supposed to be the deal, but Butters was so embarrassed by the dark wet spot on his pants that he didn’t bother to say anything. The waved goodbye to the host as Butters trailed behind Kenny. 

“You wanna drive us back?” Kenny asked, holding a bag full of food. “I only had that one beer, but I know you can be a worrywort.” 

“You want to come to my apartment?” Butters hands were trembling as he unlocked the car. The keyfob almost slipped onto the black asphalt. 

“That’s the plan, ain’t it? We can get you out of those pants if you want.” Butters slammed the brakes when he heard that. The car jolted forward and the food flung open all over the backseat. “Shoot, calm down, you’re acting real jumpy today. You nervous about something? Cartman give you trouble? I’ll kick his ass if you need me too. I’ve done it once and I can beat his fat fucking face into the ground again.” 

“No, I’ll be okay Kenny. Just a little, uh, what’s a good word,” Butters trailed off, merging into traffic. The car smelled like sweet and sour chicken, his favorite. “Nervous?” That was the first word that came to mind. 

“Aw, don’t be nervous, Sugarplum. I’ve been to your apartment dozens of times.” Butters didn’t know about dozens of times, but he had certainly been there before. Kenny helped him move in, his strong arms carrying boxes up the stairs. Butters could still see him in his cut off jean shorts and red tank top. His hair was a little bit in his face, but it looked nice, like it was intentionally styled. They drank Squirt on his newly moved couch together, laughing at memes after his parents had left. 

“It’s just different, is all Ken. I really like you.” That had done it, Butters thought. That was the unwanted advance that would make Kenny ask to be taken back to his truck at the restaurant. Butters cursed his liberal tongue, wishing he had a time machine to say anything else. Literally anything. 

“I like you too. You don’t got to be so strange about it.” Kenny said softly, propping his feet up on the dashboard. Butters wanted to tell him that it wasn’t safe to do that. That if they had an accident Kenny wouldn’t have his legs anymore and it’d be all his fault. But instead he thought about how Kenny said he liked him. He must have been mistaking. 

“I mean, I like you, like you. You make my stomach feel weird.” His voice was soft as he pulled into the apartment parking lot. 

“I know, I like you, like you too. What is this, third grade? We’re grown men. I have a thing for you, it’s obvious.” Butters stomach dropped out of place, he swore he could feel it in his shoes. Kenny liked him? Like that? It seemed sort of surreal. 

“I liked you for a long time,” Butter’s confessed, feeling the sweat pool at his hairline as he turned off the car. “I mean like a real long time. You’re real special to me, Ken.”

“You’re real special to me too, Leo.” Kenny was smiling as he got out of the car. “Let’s get in before we freeze our gonads off, huh?” And Butters was following him through the lot and up the stairs. He fiddled with his key in the lock, failing to insert it the first two tries. When the door was finally opened the heat was welcomed. 

“I think Mom left some cookies on the counter last night. They were here when I woke up, if you want one.” Kenny reached for one, shoving the whole thing in his mouth. Well of course he was hungry, Butters thought. He had ruined the whole date, he didn’t get to even eat his food, and now, now it was all over the backseat of his car. 

“They’re good.” They always were. Butters knew that when Mom left him cookies she was thinking about him. They tasted sweet and just the right amount of buttery. A secret recipe the two had perfected. He hadn’t seen her come over and drop them off, but sometimes she’d sneak in. She had gotten a spare key from Butters, just in case. 

“They’re my favorite.” Butters laughed, taking a bite. Kenny nodded, like he had heard the story a hundred times. He probably had. 

“You sure you’re okay, Buttercup? You were in the bathroom for a really long time.” Kenny sat on the couch, the one the two of them had maneuvered through the stairwell. Butters blushed thinking about that.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Ken. I just got a little overexcited is all.” Butters bit his lip after. That was a stupid thing to say. He liked Kenny, Kenny wasn’t just a piece of meat to him. Why would he be so cruel to him? He didn’t deserve to be reduced to a sex object.

“Overexcited?” Kenny’s eyebrows were raised. “Like how?”

Butters just shyly shook his head. 

“Come on, don’t get all demure on me now.” Butters thought that demure was an awfully strange word for Kenny to use, and he wondered who had taught him that. “Just tell me, I won’t laugh. Did you have to go to the bathroom? I mean, shit happens.” 

“No! Not that!” Butters shouted mortified. “I just thought of you doing stuff, that’s all.” 

“What kinda stuff?” Kenny was leaning in close, hand on Butters' knee as they rested. “We never got you out of those pants, did we?” And with that Kenny was unbottoning his pants, slipping them onto the ground. Butters was as still as stone. 

“Uh, Ken, I can take them off. You don’t have to do that for me.” But Kenny’s hand was resting on his crotch anyway, rubbing up and down slowly. 

“Want me to stop?” Kenny pulled his hand away, causing Butters to instinctively strain upwards.

“Please don’t.” Butters moaned.

“See you’re wearing your boxers today. They’re cute.” The hand was back and Butters' head was leaning against the back of the couch, mouth agape. They were just boxers in Butters' mind. He might have picked something a bit more special than the pink pair he bought on clearance if he knew Kenny would be seeing them. He didn’t think he had special occasion underwear, but it became increasingly hard to think as Kenny slipped a hand underneath his waistband.

“Wanna go to your bed?” Kenny asked, voice sultry. Butters let out a moan that Kenny took for yes. Butters did want to go to his bed. He had never been in his bed with Kenny before. And they were walking, Kenny stepping out of his pants as they left the room, pulling his shirt off. Plain white underwear, but they looked nice. 

Butters always thought Kenny looked nice. Kenny mostly naked in front of him was almost too nice, like it couldn’t be real. He had a little trail of blond hair making its way from his belly button to places Butters could only imagine. Once they fell to the bed, Kenny was grinding his pelvis into Butters. 

“Kenny?” Butters asked in a choked groan. 

“Mmhm?” Kenny was moving his hand between them, looping his fingers underneath Butter’s underwear. In a smooth movement they were around his knees, leaving him exposed, penis standing upright. “Whatcha need, Babydoll?” 

“Babydoll?” Butters asked, wondering who that was. He wasn’t a baby or a doll. Kenny’s hand stroked him in smooth movements as he thought it over. Then there was a small chuckle. 

“Not in the mood for pet names?” Butters just moaned as Kenny leaned forward. His hand was wandering away from his dick, circling around his ass. 

“I wanna help,” Butters called meekly from his pinned position. 

“Get mine,” and he was happy to oblige, freeing his cock, letting it rub against Butter’s stomach. It was a little bit smaller than Butters', but he wasn’t sure what was normal. He didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Especially not Kenny. Not Kenny when he was making him feel so good. 

Kenny had shifted, grabbing something from the nightstand. Vaseline? His Vaseline he kept there for when his elbows cracked from the cold. His mom had left it, after he moved in. Kenny stuck a finger in, pulling out a glob of jelly. 

Oh, that was heading to his butt.

“Jesus Buttercup, you're real tense, relax won't ya?” Kenny panted, letting a wet finger trace along Butters' sphincter. Butters nodded frantically, biting his lip to stifle a moan. He didn't know how he was going to relax with Kenny's thing pressed into his thing, but he tried.

And he failed.

“Babe, just breathe. It's gonna be fine. We don't have to do this tonight, if you don't want.” Butter protested, lifting lifting his hips a little bit further off of the bed, feeling the heat radiating from Kenny.

“Just nervous is all, sorry Ken.” The finger kept rubbing in slow circles, taunting him. Butters felt a single digit slip through. He felt his ass clench as all of the air in the room rushed into his lungs.

“Relax, just relax.” The finger wiggled as Butters' hips lowered slightly, his thighs stretching the tiniest bit. The finger didn't hurt. The more he felt it, the more he thought it was kind of nice. “There we go.”

The digit moved in and out, pulling a little at first, then making larger movements. 

“Feels good,” Butters encouraged, arms wrapped around Kenny’s waist. He tried to pull him closer. He leaned forward to kiss him, then was pushed back down by the softest lips he had ever felt. 

Butters thinks there was another finger added, but he wasn’t entirely sure, not with the way that Kenny’s mouth feels. Hot and wet, softness of his tongue pressing firmly against the roof of his mouth. He bucked his hips, squeezing Kenny tighter. 

“Been awhile, huh?” Kenny asked, a kind laugh in his voice. 

“Something like that,” Butters replied, which was not technically a lie. He had never done this before. He missed kissing Kenny, but soon there was another finger, stretching him open. He squealed, feeling Kenny brush something sharp and electric. 

“It’s alright, I’ll be gentle. I’m a gentleman, after all.” More laughter as Butters felt like he had lost control of his body. Then the fingers were gone, and Kenny was digging for something in his nightstand. More Vaseline, Butters could see from his position, and a condom? When was a condom put there?

“Oh geeze,” Butters cried, watching Kenny rip the packet open with his teeth. It was a metallic red, and the condom was just a little circle. Hopefully Kenny wouldn’t come putting it on. 

“You alright there?” He asked, rolling the condom down to his balls. He didn’t come. And he didn’t come when he smeared Vaseline all over it. 

“Uh huh,” Butters answered as Kenny shoved a pillow underneath his hips. He arranged Butters' legs so his knees were spread on either side of the magnificent man in front of him.

Then he was sliding in, but it wasn’t a smooth slide. It wasn’t what he’d thought it would be like. It burned and hurt. He let out a whimper, digging his nails into Kenny’s hips. His eyes were screwed shut by the time Kenny stopped.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just give it a minute. I’ll be still. God, you’re so fucking pretty.” Kenny panted. Butters looked up to see those blue eyes lovingly staring at him. Like he was special. No one looked at Butters that way. 

That seemed to make it hurt a little less.

“Go ahead,” Butters leaned up, snagging the others lips in a kiss. They moved in a tangle of limbs; Kenny steady and rhythmic, while Butters was more sporadic. 

Then there was that spot again. 

“God, Kenny, there, Kenny!” His voice was higher than he’d meant it to be as he gasped. Kenny kept going, brushing that spot, and moving a free hand to touch Butters. 

“Tell me what you want, Buttercup.” Kenny’s voice was still steady.  
Butters whined, trying to grab something for traction. His hands were back on Kenny, pulling him closer. 

Without much ceremony, Butter’s came. There was no simultaneous name calling, no love confessions. Kenny didn’t even come at the same time. There was just a wave of euphoria as Kenny pulled out, his hand frantically shaking around his dick. After a minute of Butters staring awestruck, Kenny came with a indiscriminate shout. 

“Maybe we’re both out of practice, must be getting old.” He laughed smoothly pulling the condom off, semen trapped inside, and then tied it like a water balloon. Before Butters could protest Kenny was off of the bed, holding the condom at arms length. 

His ass was really pale, Butters thought. Then he wondered if his ass was also pale. He didn’t tan, so it must be. He didn’t usually give too much thought to his own body, but he found himself looking at his stomach, wondering if that was the same shade as his behind. Could people get lighter than that? 

The thoughts were accentuated by Kenny peeing. The tap ran as Butters wondered what the palest person ever alive looked like. Kenny didn’t come back to the bed. He walked right past Butters without even putting his underwear back on. 

To be honest, Butters was in shock that he had just had sex with Kenny. 

Sure he had thought about it, even had a few dreams where he and Kenny would kiss underneath his blankets, but this was different. This had been real. He was fairly certain it had been real. His ass felt like it had been real. 

Kenny was back in the room, handing Butters a sugar cookie, holding a piece of paper in his other hand. The cookie tasted better than the first one. He patted the bed for Kenny to sit down. He didn’t, but he did smile real wide at Butters as he pulled on his underpants. 

“That’s some fancy party you went to, huh? A gala with a charity auction, that’s rich people stuff.” Butters stared blankly as Kenny placed the scrap of paper on the nightstand. He was laughing, and Butters liked the way his voice litled off of the walls.

“I didn’t go to that, must have tracked it home from school.” Kenny didn’t push it. Instead, he leaned over, placing a kiss on Butters' forehead. It felt warm, but not like when his Grams had given him kisses. It was different. He wanted these kisses. They felt special.

Maybe, it was Kenny who was special. 

“I’m gonna call an Uber, okay? It’s not too late to get my truck.” Kenny was pulling on his pants. Why was Kenny leaving? Maybe he had to work tomorrow. Mechanics must have to keep weird hours. “I had a nice night, hope you did too.” 

Kenny was walking towards the kitchen, again. He could hear the drawers open and shut. Then there was a small a-ha.

As Butters fell asleep he heard Kenny say something about taking the spare key, and leaving a note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So chapter?
> 
> Also I have a tumblr, it's PBJellieAO3 because I'm so creative. You could follow me and see me post memes and rant. Hurray.


	8. Professor Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank and apologize to PBJellie. She has to deal with me having an existential crisis every single time I write something and decide to give up writing/kill myself.

There is something distinctly different about this evening. Professor Chaos realizes this the moment his eyes open. There's a different energy in the air. The very room itself feels different. It lacks its typical aura of desperate loneliness. It has a feeling of recent emptiness. That phantom feeling that a person was surely just in this room but you just missed them. Like their breath still lingers.

    Then there's the smell.

    The smell is less instantaneous. Chaos is stretching his legs out and rubbing at his eyes, trying to force himself awake, when he catches his first whiff of the smell. He lets himself go limp on the bed, limbs feeling loose, and breathes in the scent. Even then it takes a moment for him to recognize the odor. It's familiar enough that he at first pays it no more attention than the smell crisp new sheets or freshly cut grass, then it hits him like a smack to the face.

    Semen.

    Besides that one time that Chaos had awoken to wet sheets, after a prolonged absence on his part, he has never smelled semen in this apartment. If that worm does masturbate, he hides the evidence before falling asleep. And if he doesn't, Chaos is pretty sure he doesn't to be truthful, he cleans out the pipes enough for the both of them to not have to worry about the unpleasantness associated with beguiling dreams.

    The entire bed stinks of the stuff. It's bleachy and unpleasant, antiseptic. Chaos feels like he's in a morgue. Somehow, he knows he isn't smelling his own cum. He knows the aroma of his own cum. His body is capable of distinguishing his own pheromones. This scent is more offensive, more impure. It smells like somebody who lives on diner burgers and gas station pizza. Chaos reaches out cautiously to one side and finds the comforter crusty.

    Disgusting.

    He sits up cautiously, leaning towards one side to avoid the dried out mess on the blankets. The movement shakes forth an ache from an unexpected area. Dear God, no. Closing his eyes in revulsion, Chaos reaches between his legs, probing a finger beneath his junk, and confirms what he feels. Wetness, hot and gooey, seeping from inside him. He looks at his glistening fingers and then smells them to confirm. No, the smell of semen isn't coming from there. Small miracles. It's just lubricant. Just lubricant? What a joke.

    It's undeniable. That rodent got laid earlier today. And he bottomed. There's the possibility he's wrong about the scent being that of another man, that he was pegged by a woman instead, but considering how pathetic _his_ sex life is it seems unlikely. Most people don't go from old maids to getting pegged with no in between. No, it's more likely he was fucked by a man sometime this evening and what a fucking waste. Has he somehow avoided looking down and seeing what's between his legs? He has a cock made to be ridden. A dick this big shouldn't be ignored. He was probably fucked by some ugly, pockmarked manager from Burger King who couldn't even see over his own gut.

    He feels, well. Not violated, necessarily. Not angry exactly. Frustrated. He's frustrated. Frustrated that no matter what he does when he's awake he can still wake up to situations like this. He can't control what goes in or out of his own body. At the very least a man should have control of his own body. It's the only thing that can truly belong to a person. You can lose everything else in your life but when you lose your body there is no you left.

    Chaos runs both his hands through his hair a few more times, sighing in annoyance. He doesn't feel like driving anywhere tonight, he wishes he could just wake up in his own penthouse for once in his goddamn life. In his elegantly decorated bedroom with the dark wood floors. With his cream colored curtains and golden thread quilts. He has never even slept in that bed. He's too afraid of falling asleep and not waking up in the same place. He relaxes in that bed. He fucks Tweek in that bed. But he doesn't sleep in that bed. He imagines falling asleep in his plush quilts, atop his high thread count sheets, with Tweek beside him.

    But no, that's not where he goes to sleep and that's not where he wakes up. That's where he wants to live. Not in this shoebox. Not in this tiny little baby blue bedroom with all these throw pillows and the fucking curtains with rabbits on them. Who lives here? The fucking Easter bunny?

    Time to stop moping. His time is limited and he tries to live every moment to its fullest. What does he have to do tonight? Well, it's hard to tell until he knows what day tonight is. He could've been gone anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks. He had once disappeared for three straight weeks, returning to a financial mess and an Eric Cartman in hysterics about how he hadn't been able to reach him. Apparently there had been some gang warfare going on in the meantime. His men had won, and that rival gang was no longer in existence.

    The cockroach's phone is on the stand so he picks it up and checks for the date. He's updated his wallpaper again, this time to a picture of a puppy with a peanut butter jar stuck on its nose. No sudden significant other anyway. Or at least not one important enough to replace a gluttonous canine. There is a message on the phone though, it displays when he turns on the screen.

    Unknown: I kno what youve been doing u peace of shit & Im going to fuckin kill u!

    Well, that's an interesting piece of news. What has _he_ been up to? Maybe _his_ mystery man is this Unknown's boyfriend? He'd almost be impressed with the rodent for accomplishing such a feat. IF he weren't a chain restaurant manager.

    Ah well. They have a drug shipment coming through tonight. He doesn't always inspect them personally but he likes to be there for them every so often, for quality control purposes. You never know who will try to fuck you. Your own men, their men. Better to keep them on their toes.

    He also needs to talk to some of his men about taking orders from a certain Eric Cartman. He doesn't trust Cartman right now, not fully. He'll need to earn his trust back with Chaos, a notoriously difficult task. But the truth is, Chaos needs Cartman. He's the only man who knows who Chaos really is. He's the only one who can explain away his absences. He's the only man who can understand why he can't put his businesses under his own name. For better or worse, getting rid of Cartman right now would be too much of a hassle. It's doable, but he's willing to give him one more chance for convenience sake. Maybe it's time to start moving some responsibilities to other parties though. Just putting the businesses under different names would be a good start.

    He reaches over to set the phone back down on the table and hears a crinkle, something unpleasantly pokes at his naked hip. He reaches for it and crinkles his nose in confusion. It's a piece of paper. It looks like a note. It's handwritten in barely legible chicken scratch, purple ink on pink stationary. He picks it up and reads it.

 

_Ode to My Babydoll_

 

_I have a little babydoll_

_T_ _he cutest little thing_

_More than any car or gun_

_Dolly's my favorite plaything_

 

_I brush dolly's golden hair_

_So it shines like silk_

_Dolly has eyes like sapphires_

_And skin as pale as milk_

 

_And I can undress my Dolly_

_Anytime that I like_

_And when Dolly's clothes are off_

_Dolly pretends that I am a bike_

 

_My Dolly doesn't say Mama_

_But Dolly can scream my name_

_My Dolly rides me hard_

_And thanks me that Dolly came_

 

_When I was a small boy_

_Daddy told me babydolls are for girls_

_But I'm glad I have my Dolly_

_From Dolly's smile to Dolly's golden curls_

 

    Underneath this, um, “poem,” there's a note asking for a call from a “Kenny.”

    Who the fuck is Kenny? The Burger King manager? Well if he wrote this travesty of a poem then yeah, he most likely flips burgers for a living. Is this how he got into that worm's pants? Was he wooed by that shitty poem? Or was this just one of many horrendous attempts to butcher the English language? Chaos can imagine this romance stretching out of several months, with increasingly bad and bland love letters that brought forth sizable swooning from both ends.

    He tosses the poem aside, not evening wanting to touch the thing any longer, and hoists his legs over the side of the bed. The wetness between his legs drips down his thighs. How much lube did they use? It's anal sex, not drilling for oil. The man's dick wasn't going to melt from the friction and pressure of the vermin's asshole. Still, with the ache in his sphincter maybe it's for the best. Was that the first time a dick has been inside this body? There must have been a lot of clenching and resistance for it to hurt like this. Tweek never complains about pain and Chaos has fucked him for hours on end when they were both high on ecstasy.

    Normally, Chaos showers before heading out. He has to. The cheap cologne, or body spray, or whatever the fuck the worm uses, stinks like the Wal-Mart perfume aisle. However, he decides to indulge in the luxury of a bath tonight instead of his usual shower, allowing his sore rectum to soak in the hot water. He even uses some of the bath salts he finds under the sink, selecting the eucalyptus scented bag over the fig or lavender. He needs to sooth his asshole, not smell like a greenhouse. There's a copy of _Little Women_ on the tub's lip but he's not a teenage girl. He finds a copy of _Treasure Island_ on the bookshelf and reads that instead as he waits for the salts to do their work, soaking for nearly an hour and allowing the hot water to sooth him. His calves ache too, had this “Kenny” folded him in two like some origami twink? He uses two fingers to clean the remaining substance out of his anus. It doesn't feel like normal lube, too viscous even in the hot water. Like it's made to resist in the liquid.

    Chaos is standing in front of the fogged-over mirror in the bathroom, carefully gelling back his hair in his normal style, when his phone begins to ring. It's not an iPhone, he doesn't like the lack-of-freedom Apple products bring, and the ring is a default tone. The sort of tone that leaves no lingering memory. He barely notices it himself despite the silence of the bathroom.

    He waits to answer it, finishing his task at hand, turning and tilting his head from side to side, chin up, to make sure he looks presentable from all angles. He wishes his chin were stronger. He wishes the mirror were larger and the lights were brighter. Is that a hickey on his throat? The phone stops ringing as the voicemail picks up. Then it begins to ring again. He washes his hands, careful to clean beneath his fingernails because frankly, who knows where these things have have been since last time he's used them, and the ring cycle on the phone repeats once more. He dries his hand on a hand towel, one of the embroidered ones that are probably supposed to be for show only, and finally picks up his phone.

    There on display is a photo of a angular-faced blond man, one eye closed, cum dripping down his left cheek and onto his chin. The picture is so clear the ejaculate shines, the phone itself appearing wet, like he'd smear some on his fingertips when he presses the Accept key. Chaos answers it as he switches the light off in the bathroom and heads towards the living room.

    “Tweek, why are you calling me? It's barely dark out.”

    “Craig found my stash!” the words come out in a jumble of syllables and vowels mashed together, frantic. “I got home from NA and he was waiting for me so I ran!”

    Chaos doesn't bother to point out the dark humor he finds in the fact his little boy toy's drug habit was discovered while he was at Narcotics Anonymous. Like of course that's how it turned out.

    “What do you expect me to do about that?” he asks instead, walking into the tiny kitchen. “I'm not a relationship counselor.”

    “Gah!” Tweek screeches. Chaos can imagine how he looks in his mind, probably pulling at his hair or scratching his arms. He rummages through the fridge for a drink. Tab? Who the fuck drinks Tab in 2018? “I need a fix man, he's been around the house all day and I haven't had anything! I feel like my skeleton is trying to escape my skin!”

    “I'll be in Denver in about an hour,” Chaos tells him, shifting groceries out of the way on the top shelf. “I'll meet you at the apartment before I deal with some business.”

    “No man!” Tweek begs. “I can't wait an hour. Ah! I know you're home, I can see your lights on! You just turned off the little one!”

    Chaos goes quiet, perturbed by the fact Tweek is somewhere near enough to be watching him. Near enough to even be able to point out exactly which window belongs to the vermin who inhabits this apartment and even determine when he switches off the bathroom light. How long has Tweek been sitting out there? His phone doesn't show missed calls when it's turned off, not that the safe can pick up a signal anyway, but has Tweek been calling him for awhile then? Is that why he's parked outside his apartment, because he couldn't get hold of him?

    He goes to the window and parts the blind, peeking through. He sees Tweek's white Honda Accord parked beneath a street light.

    “Please,” Tweek continues, still begging. “I need a fix right now.”

    “Alright,” Chaos concedes with a sigh, letting go of the blinds. “But don't start thinking you can come to this apartment whenever you feel like it. You know you're only allowed to approach me in Denver.”

    “I, I know, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you.”

    “You will,” Chaos agrees, hanging up the phone. He finds a bottle of Pellegrino near the back of the fridge and twists of the top, glad to find something decent to drink for once. He wouldn't be surprised if he had been the one to put it in there in the first place.

    He barely gets a sip of the sparkling water past his lips before a series of knocks interrupt his solitude. Tweek doesn't knock like a normal person. His knocks aren't a couple of quick, precise taps of the knuckles. He knocks with his whole fist with no sense of rhythm or decorum. Now his knock isn't continuous, but it doesn't exactly end either. He knocks three times, more or less equally distant from each other, followed by two longer knocks, then two quicker knocks, then he bangs on the door once. When Chaos opens the door he has just followed the bang with two barely audible taps and his fist is raised for a third when his whole body sags in relief to see Chaos.

    He looks like a mess. His blond hair is natural, no hairspray as Sunflower wears, but it still stands up in all directions. If anything maybe more so than usual as he's probably been pulling at it. His eyes have dark circles beneath them, making the paleness of his skin stand out even more. His lips are swollen from biting them. Why Chaos finds this attractive is beyond him. Maybe he just has a thing for white trash junkies?

    Tweek is on him in seconds, grabbing hold of the front of Chaos' shirt and sinking to his knees before him, sobbing.

    “Please,” he begs, “I n, need it.”

    “What do you need, Tweek?” Chaos coos at him, touching his hair. It's soft, despite the volume. Like petting a kitten.

    “Meth?” Tweek asks, and Chaos knows he really must be desperate right now because Tweek is too out of it to know what he's saying. Tweek nuzzles his face into Chaos' shirt, his breath hot on his skin through the fabric.

    “I don't pay for you to get your teeth whitened just so you can rot them out with that shit,” he reminds him. “I'm not your parents.”

    “Coke then?” Tweek mumbles into Chaos' stomach.

    “No,” Chaos sets his hand on top of Tweek's head and just leaves it there. In a more pure setting it could be said he resembles a priest giving a blessing. “You're strung out, you don't need stimulants.”

    “Anything, please.”

    Chaos unzips his laptop case he has already removed from the safe and pulls out a baggy of white powder. Tweek, hearing the crinkle of plastic, pulls back and looks up. He sees the Ziplock bag in Chaos' hand and his eyes zoom in on it, intensely focused. Chaos watches him lick his lips.

    He doesn't let Tweek have heroin very often. He normally wants him awake. Besides, it's worse for him than coke, more addictive, more dangerous. If he wants Tweek serene he normally just gives him some pot, maybe a sedative if he's that bad. But Tweek is a big fan of this stuff, he enjoys the calmness that comes with it. Chaos moves his hand, bringing the baggie close to Tweek's face, waving it only a few inches from his nose, invitingly.

    Tweek reaches for Chaos' zipper.

    “No here,” he slaps at Tweek's hand. “In the bedroom.”

    “Where's the...” Tweek looks around, really looks. His lips twitch, eyes blinking. He sees the Hello, Kitty display and the throw pillows. The doilies on the coffee table, the stuffed unicorn. He looks lost.

    “This way,” Chaos starts towards the bedroom and Tweek is thrown off balance, falling onto his hands and knees.

    When Chaos had first met Tweek he had been stripping to support his competing habits of meth and crack cocaine use. It had been a pure twist of fate that night, a random Saturday like any other in Denver really. He had looked towards Chaos mid-dance and mouthed the name of that rodent. Really, what were the odds? That an incredibly attractive male stripper in Denver had known _him_? That the stripper was also from South Park? That the stripper would do anything to get him to keep quiet?

    There had been a time before, a long time ago now but not that long from when they had first met, that Tweek had used needles. When Chaos met him he used pipes. Needles leave marks and as Tweek had told him, “Craig can't know.” Not knowing a Craig, that had been an easy promise for Chaos to keep.

    Chaos doesn't let Tweek use pipes anymore. Pipes are for white trash. Tweek belongs to Chaos and anything that belongs to Chaos cannot be trash. He supplies him with the best. Pure, white powders easily inhaled. As pure and white as freshly fallen snow. Chaos enjoys watching him stuff the powers up his nose.

    He leads the way to the bedroom and the addict doesn't even stand to follow him, scrambling after him on his hands and knees like a clumsy puppy. He might be too messed up to be able to stand easily on his own because, once they're in the bedroom, he uses the bed as leverage to pull himself up. Like an obedient pet, Tweek removes his clothes, shedding them quickly and efficiently, devoid of the sensuality he exudes when he does this for a crowd of strangers. Being naked in front of Chaos is nothing, this is all business to him.

    Tweek is all angles and jutting bones, every curve on him more like a point, as sharp as a knife. He is larger than Chaos overall, wider, taller, but he's thinner. There is very little spare fat or muscle on his slender frame, his hip bones and collar bones jut out particularly under their thin layers of pale flesh. His chest is concave, his ribs prominent. He has the body of a junkie.

    And for some reason Chaos finds him irresistible. He's lost some of his looks over the last few years, the youth starting to fade from his face in a way only an addict's can, but something about him is still enticing in a way no other lover has ever been to him. Whenever Chaos sees him like this, vulnerable, breakable, he wants to touch him. There's something about this blond in particular that he finds almost comforting. He's like a well-worn armchair, broken in, molded to fit Chaos' curves and bulges.

    He waves the baggie in the air for a moment, catching Tweek's gaze, then tosses it onto one of the pillows on the bed. Tweek pounces like a cat on a mouse. He knows better than to grab it from Chaos' hand.

    Chaos undresses leisurely and waits until the blond's comfortable, sprawled out on his stomach, pulling himself up onto his elbows. He's already lining up the white power on the bedside table before Chaos finally touches him. As usual Tweek is accommodating, lifting his ass and spreading his legs apart obediently. But he's not paying attention to Chaos. Not really. He's preoccupied.

    “Can I, ngh, use this?” Tweek's holding up that ridiculous note from “Kenny.”

    “Go ahead,” Chaos waves off the request, his attention already back to the matter at hand. That matter being Tweek's ass. His bottom is devoid of fat and muscle as the rest of him. When Chaos grabs a cheek in each hand and spreads him, there is barely a handful of flesh filling each palm. As usual, Chaos finds Tweek's asshole extremely inviting. He hears the sound of tearing as Tweek rips the paper in two to create a straw to stuff up his nose.

    Chaos runs the flat of his tongue over Tweek's puckered sphincter. The other blond clenches reflexively against the intrusion but does nothing to stop it. He hears the familiar sniffing sound coming from the top of the bed followed by an audible swallow. Chaos licks at Tweek's asshole again, precise little swipes of his tongue like a kitten lapping up milk. He grips his ass cheeks harder, spreading him further apart. He's so hairless and smells so good. He tastes good. Chaos bites at Tweek's ass cheek. The sound of the baggie crinkling reaches his ears. He's probably setting up another line. Tweek snorts smaller lines than most people Chaos knows, he doesn't have the lung capacity to inhale a full hit in one go.

    He gives the man one hard slap on his ass and then curls his tongue up in a more pointed form so he can fuck him with it. Tweek always squeals when he has a tongue up his ass and Chaos loves the sound of it. He forces his tongue past Tweek's tight muscle and curls it up, licking his insides. As expected, Tweek presses back against him, desperate sounds escaping his lips. Chaos forces his tongue in deeper, freezing when he feels something touch it. He could deal with shit, it's always a risk when rimming a person, but that's not what he tastes.

    He's tastes like the bed smelled this evening.

    Chaos pulls back and wipes at his mouth, disgusted.

    “You let him fuck you?”

    “Huh?” Tweek's voice is already going hazy. Chaos wonders if he already did the second line, he didn't hear it but he was preoccupied.

    “Your boyfriend. He left his cum inside of you?”

    “Oh,” Tweek shifts. He bends his waist and moves towards the center of the bed. The table is slightly whitened by the powder, the corner near the bed looking paler than the rest of the table. Tweek collapses on the bed, folding his hands under his head. “Yeah. This afternoon, before I went to NA.”

    Chaos feels irrationally angry. He knows Tweek has a boyfriend, he knows they fuck, but he's never tasted him on him before. It feels like somebody tried to rob him. Tweek is his. He may let other people associate with him but they shouldn't be touching him. It's not even the fact that he was tasting another man that bothered him. He isn't disgusted by bodily fluids, if he had tasted that “Craig” inside of one of his prostitutes he wouldn't have been bothered by it. But he's marked Tweek by making him smell like him, taste like him. He may as well have pissed on him and put a collar on him.

    He grabs Tweek by the hips and pulls him up further, burying his face back between his cheeks. He'll start by filling him full of his saliva and finish by filling him full of his cum. Tweek grabs at the blankets and curses between his heaving panting for the first couple minutes. Then he squeaks like a dog toy when Chaos begins to finger him, pushing his spit deep inside him. But saliva only gets you so far. He spots the jar of Vaseline on the bedside table and grabs the entire container, bringing it into bed with them.

    Tweek moans softly as he spreads him open, his hard cock hanging between his skinny thighs. Chaos licks at his balls, loving the hairlessness of them. Tweek shaves for his job. Does that “Craig” think its for him? Does he think Tweek is just naturally this smooth? He licks at his taint. Usually that drives Tweek wild but he's going quiet. Chaos slaps him on the ass, then does it again, and again, trying to keep him with him.

    Tweek is no longer responding to Chaos' touches. No longer clenching or breathing heavily or making those little squeaks. Chaos pulls back, removing his finger's from the boys ass, and grabs his hip.

    “Still with me?”

    He makes a small noise. He's still conscious, but not for long.

    “Come on,” Chaos pulls at his hip, attempting to move him. “Turn over before you're totally out of it.”

    He's still for a moment, his mind already slowed by the drugs beginning to course through his system, but he obeys. He braces himself with one arm and lifts his head and shoulder, rolling lazily onto his back. There's still traces of white powder on his nostril. Chaos makes himself at home between the blond's parted legs, hitching them up on his shoulders. Tweek's eyes are closed and he's limp, boneless beneath him. He could be a rag doll, if it wasn't for the now half-formed erection lying against his sunken stomach.

    Chaos pushes in slowly, but there is no need. His entrance is as loose and relaxed as the rest of his body. He takes him easily, despite the smallness of Tweek's body and and the largeness of Chaos' cock. He's so good at it, so accommodating. He fits inside him like a key in its hole.

    He takes his time fucking him. He could be quick. If he isn't unconscious then he's far too gone to be anywhere near coherent enough to complain. But Chaos doesn't want to be quick. He wants to be thorough. He wants to keep pressing deeper and deeper inside him, deep enough he'll still feel him tomorrow. He wants to leave his own imprint inside him and pull out the remnants of that other man's mark he left in him. He imagines his cockhead, his foreskin, like a scoop, pulling out what's inside and leaving it strewn over the cheap sheets. He doesn't want to pull out of him until he smells and tastes like only himself.

    It's exhausting. His arms start to shake from holding himself above the other man's body and he gives in, letting himself press fully against him. He rests his forehead against the blond's throat and feels the pulse there throbbing against his skin. His thrusts are deeper but slow, lazy. He's in no hurry to come. He allows Tweek's legs to slide off his shoulders, holding them around his own hips instead. It's not as deep but it's more comfortable.

    Chaos props himself up onto his elbows and leans his face against Tweek's. The addict is breathing much more evenly than himself, far away in some blissful dreamland, doubtless. Chaos licks his cheek. He licks his fluttering eyelids. He tastes the sweat of his forehead.

    He kisses him on the mouth. His lips are open, slack. He doesn't respond to Chaos' tongue sliding between his teeth but Chaos laps at the roof of his mouth anyway. He tastes just slightly bitter from the drugs.

    Chaos can't do this much longer. He needs to cum. He pulls back and grabs Tweek's waist above his jutting hips, holding him up and in place. He drives into his harder. Their skin slaps together wet and obscene.

    There's a banging coming from outside. Chaos has his eyes closed, his breathing is heavy as he ignores whatever the neighbors are up to.

    “Tweek!” a voice sounds distant. “I saw your car outside. Butters! Butters, where the fuck are you hiding him?”

    Chaos is so close to coming. He fucks the unconscious body beneath him harder. The bed frame slams against the wall. There's sweat dripping from his temples. The bed bangs against the wall. Again. And again. The next bang sounds more hollow.

    Because that bang isn't the bang of a bed hitting a wall. That's the sound of a doorknob hitting a different wall. Chaos doesn't notice the tall black haired man in the doorway. Barely hears him shouting.

    “Get the fuck off of him!”

    One moment he's so, so close to coming inside of the beautiful man in front of him, the next moment he's on the floor beside the bed. There's a man on top of him. There's fists hitting him in the face.

    Chaos knees the man in the crotch and rolls him off of him. He runs for the door but he's not quick enough. The man grabs him by the wrist and they fall out the door together into the living room. Chaos is still hard, his erection bobbing ridiculously between them.

    The man is tall. Very tall. Yes, everybody is taller than Chaos but this man is easily over six foot and he's pissed off. He grabs Chaos by the throat and shoves him against the wall. His head bangs against it. He sees stars.

    “You are providing drugs to my boyfriend in exchange for sex,” the man grits out. “You are the last fucking person I would ever expect to be feeding that shit to a desperate man.”

    Chaos can't respond. There are fingers cutting into his throat. The man hits his head against the wall again. His vision is starting to go fuzzy. His head throbs. His skull feels too tight.

    This man is going to kill him. This man who owns Tweek. Craig. His name is Craig. Chaos knows that. No, this man who thinks he owns Tweek. Because Tweek belongs to Chaos, not this man. Tweek is his.

    Chaos manages to get one arm up and claws at this man, Craig's, eyes. He closes them before Chaos can do any damage but it's enough of a distraction for him to release Chaos for just a second. He pulls away once more and tries to get away. It doesn't work. There are hands on him again and Chaos pushes back, tries to stop him before he can pin him helplessly against another hard surface. He headbutts him in the stomach and arms go around his chest, holding him. They wrestle for ten seconds, twenty seconds, but what can Chaos really accomplish against a man so much larger than himself?

    He kicks behind Craig's knees, sending him off balance as his knees buckle, and he shoves him.

    Craig falls face first through the glass Hello, Kitty cabinet. The sound of glass shattering is almost pretty, like violins and pianos to the ear.

    There are no dying screams. Just a man's panicked eyes looking up at him as he tries to staunch the blood flowing from his throat. The large, jagged piece of glass jutting from his jugular does little to block the stream. It spreads quickly beneath his, flowing around his hair, staining the carpet. He dies with his eyes wide open, staring at Chaos.

    Head still spinning, Chaos stumbles back into the bedroom. He needs to lie down. The blows to his head were too much. He needs to lie down. He might have a concussion. He needs, he needs to lie down. He needs to call Cartman for help. He needs to get a clean up crew over here ASAP. He needs to lie down before he falls down. He needs to-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about this. Really. The sex scenes were a joke at first "I'm gonna have a sex scene in every Chaos chapter since Butters can't get any." Now they're just gratuitous.


End file.
